It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Murder, page 21
It didn't take long before Morris could see the Mall of New Jersey in the distance. He was surprised to see someone running on the shoulder of the road. It was not a good spot for running, the road narrow, the shoulder poorly graded, the kind of road where you might easily twist an ankle. Not a runner himself, Morris knew this only as second-hand information, but it made sense. Still, there was someone running on the shoulder. Morris looked again and began honking his horn, leaning on the horn really. He pulled up alongside the runner and offered him a ride the rest of the way to the mall.
"I thought I told you to go home," Eggs said. "Thanks for not taking my advice."
When Morris pulled his Buick into the crowded parking lot, Eggs asked him to drop him off at the door. "I'd ask you to wait out here, but I guess you wouldn't listen."
Morris smiled. "Go on in. I'll find a place to leave the car."
"Don't—grr—think I won't shoot you too."
Watching from her spot above Santa's Workshop, Cassie could see that events were spinning out of control. She felt dizzy and for just a moment, thought she might fall from the railing. She stiffened at the sound of her favorite waitress turned stone-cold killer. This was not what Cassie meant when she told Morris she had solved the case. It was then that Cassie spotted Eggs. He must have come in through a different entrance because he was already on the lower level, working his way quietly through the mall, approaching Santa's Workshop from the rear.
Little Mack pointed his Smith and Wesson at Greta. "Are you sure you wanna do this lady?"
"Wait a minute, please," Tommy V. was begging now. "Greta, don't. Little Mack, you don't wanna do this. C'mon man, there's gotta be another way to settle this."
"It's a matter of honor, Tommy," Little Mack said, talking to himself as much as to Santa. "She killed my father."
"No she didn't."
"Shut up—grr—Tommy."
"Don't do this Greta."
"I said shut up. I killed his father. I'll kill him if I have to." Greta pointed her pistol at her ex-husband, preparing to fire. "And if you—grr—don't shut up, I'm willing to kill you too."
"Mom, don't!"
In a mall filled with thousands of holiday shoppers, it seemed as though no one said a word. The only sounds Cassie heard, watching from her spot at the railing was the Christmas music coming through the speakers, Grandma got run over by a reindeer, and the sound of her heart pounding in her chest. Things happened all at once, but later, when Cassie described the scene, she said it was as if everyone was moving in slow motion.
Halfway down the escalator, running down the steps, Tommy Junior dove for his mother. At the same moment, from behind Santa's Workshop, Detective Bebedict dove for Little Mack. Two shots rang out. Tommy Junior pushed his mother to the floor, but not before she took a bullet to her shoulder, blood arcing through the air as she fell to the floor, screaming in pain. Santa, ducking for cover, collided with the detective as he lunged for Little Mack. Eggs saw the hole in his jeans and knew he'd been hit. He struggled to his feet and grabbed for Little Mack, who was running now, in his finely tailored suit and his polished Italian loafers. Splattered now with Detective Bebedict's blood, he ran for the exit.
A Minor Aggravation
Morris circled in the parking lot, slowly despairing of ever finding a spot to leave his Buick. The lot was sinking under the weight of parked cars. Finally, a parking space opened up so far from the mall itself that Morris found himself looking for a tram to the entrance. Of course, there was no tram at the Mall of New Jersey. Morris began the long walk through the parking lot. Ten minutes later, he reached the first row of cars, those few lucky cars that had taken up residence just a few feet from the front door. Morris wondered how early these shoppers must have arrived to claim the precious spots. And there, in the very first spot, closer even than the handicapped parking spaces, Morris recognized Little Mack's Lincoln Town Car.
He wondered what mischief brought Little Mack to the mall. Morris found himself growing angry at the sight of the Town Car. It's not like the Macks were the cause of Morris's financial troubles. Morris understood they were just the beneficiaries of his fiscal mismanagement. But there was something about the Town Car, sitting there in the very first spot, while Morris's aging Buick was parked in another zip code that seemed to symbolize all that was wrong with Morris's life.
He knew it was petty and juvenile, but he wanted to exact revenge on the Town Car. But how? Morris searched in his pocket for the mini corkscrew that hung on his key chain. He looked around. The lot was filled with cars but largely absent of people. He kneeled down by the driver's side wheel, the Town Car hiding him from the view of shoppers going in and out the mall entrance. The corkscrew was not especially sharp, but after several tries, Morris managed to puncture the tire. Morris grinned at the stupidity of the gesture. He pictured Little Mack changing the tire in the parking lot.
Morris peeked over the car. No one was looking in his direction. He should move and move quickly. And then Morris had a truly inspired idea. Remembering his own experience, Morris realized that two flat tires would be so much more aggravating than one. Two flats could not be fixed with one spare. Morris ducked down behind the car, frog walking his way to the rear tire.
Morris stabbed at the second tire, and took one more peek across the rear of the car. At just that moment, the mall doors burst open and Little Mack careened into the sunlight, bumping into an elderly shopper as she was heading into the mall.
When Little Mack attempted to brush past the old lady, she grabbed him by the sleeve of his hand-tailored jacket. "Hold on there young man. Didn't your mother teach you any manners?"
Little Mack tried to pull away, mumbling something that neither of them fully understood. Rae Harbrough held fast to Little Mack's sleeve.
"I know you," she said. "Your father was that . . . that criminal . . . the one who stole my cashmere scarf."
Peeking over the car, Morris saw the panicked look plastered on Little Mack's face. Staying low to the ground, Morris worked his way back, deeper into the parking lot, away from the Town Car and its temporarily detained owner.
Little Mack said nothing to the little old lady with the sharp tongue and the iron grip.
"It's no wonder you never learned your P's and Q's." Rae Harbrough launched into a lecture on common courtesy.
"Listen, lady. I got no time for this crap." He pulled out his wallet and peeled two one-hundred dollar bills from the billfold. "Here. This makes us even." Little Mack yanked his arm free and ran for his car.
Rae Harbrough watched Little Mack flee from his lesson in manners. She shook her head in dismay. "I blame it on television."
Little Mack jumped in the driver's seat, cramming the key in the ignition, nearly out of control now, grinding the gears and slamming the car in reverse. That's when he realized the Town Car had two flat tires.
Hiding behind a step van, parked some four aisles back, Morris watched the disabled Town Car and laughed. It was just a little thing, just two flat tires, a minor aggravation really in the life of Little Mack, nothing more, but it was enough. Morris felt better. He had gotten even with Little Mack.
While Morris watched, four police cars came screaming into the parking lot, surrounding the limping Lincoln Town Car.
An Uncomfortable, Hospital-Issue Plastic Chair
The nurse let Cassie into the detective's room with a firm reminder. "Detective Bebedict lost a lot of blood."
Cassie looked at Eggs, lying in the hospital bed, scowling at the nurse, and had to chuckle. "You had us all worried."
"I'm fine," Eggs growled. He dropped his voice, embarrassed. "Thanks."
"You will be," Cassie gently chided the detective, "when you start listening to the nurse."
Cassie sat quietly in an uncomfortable, hospital-issue, plastic chair alongside the bed. This man had become important to her. She felt no need for conversation.
But Eggs wanted to talk. "I must have passed out just about the time back-up descended on the mall."
Cassie remembered the moment, watching from above, that she saw the detective go down. That was when she first realized how fond she was of him. "Loss of blood can do that to you."
Eggs growled, but softer now, nearly a purr. "My captain told me you were a big help."
"Well, I had a clear view of everything from upstairs."
"Lots of people watched from the food court, but you were the one who solved the case."
Cassie felt her face turning red. "I always accepted your theory of the crime, that this was about a deal gone bad between Big Mack and his inside guy at the mall. If you couldn't make the case against Oliver, I figured it had to be someone else who was working at the mall."
Cassie looked at Eggs and smiled. "What do I know? I thought it was Tommy V."
"Yeah, the captain told me. You figured there were no prints on the knife because the killer was wearing gloves. And then Morris remembered seeing the kid at Louie's. So it made sense. And in a way, you had it right. Santa was the inside guy at the mall, passing stolen property to the Macks. But he wasn't the killer."
Eggs struggled to complete the couple of sentences. Cassie could tell that he was getting tired. "Get some rest. We can talk more later on."
Eggs smiled, too weak to growl. "I'm okay. I wanna hear this."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
Cassie thought back to the scene in the mall. "When Greta showed up claiming to be the killer, I was stunned. Why would she want to kill either Big Mack or Louie? Besides, I was pretty sure, we'd find out that she was waiting tables at the Eggery when the murders happened. It didn't make any sense."
Cassie continued. "Why would the woman lie about the murders? Certainly not to protect her ex-husband. You know, watching from above, the aerial view, I had the sense that I was watching a family drama unfolding below me. That's when it became obvious. Why would a woman confess to a crime she didn't commit? Who would a mother protect, even at the cost of her own life?"
Eggs mumbled, "Her son."
Cassie saw pain in the detective's eyes. She wondered if he was due for more meds. "Do you want me to continue?"
Eggs nodded, weakly.
"Tommy V. was the inside guy passing stuff to Big Mack. But neither of them worked alone. Big and Little Mack were a team. So were Tommy and Tommy Junior."
Cassie continued. "Suddenly it all made sense. Greta and her son got into a big argument that morning at the restaurant. I assumed it was about the busboy job. Greta told me more than once that she was worried about her son, worried that he was capable of making a really big mistake. I don't think she understood yet how bad things were. Tommy V. was just a small-time crook, too lazy for anything other than small-time cons. But Tommy Junior was a growing boy. He had bigger appetites."
She looked down at Eggs, asleep in the hospital bed. "Merry Christmas, Detective."
One eye opened. "My friends call me Eggs.
One Last Thing
Cassie kicked off her shoes, poured herself a Tullamore Dew, and prepared to write her story. She checked her phone machine for messages.
"Hi Cassie. It's Chey. I got a call from my mother. She said there was a shoot-out at the mall. She told me how she apprehended Little Mack when he attempted to make his getaway. And get this, Cassie. She said, and I quote here, she said, 'Oh and your friend Cassie, she may have had a bit part in this as well.' And then she said, 'Be careful, dear. Cassie seems to have fallen in with a bad crowd.' How great is that? Moms. Anyway, I'm proud of you. And one last thing. Merry Christmas."
Cassie freshened her drink and raised her glass. "Merry Christmas."
About the Author
Jeff Markowitz is the author of the Cassie O'Malley Mysteries, humorous mysteries set deep in the New Jersey Pine Barrens. Jeff holds a Bachelor's degree in psychology from PrincetonUniversity and graduate degrees in special education and human services. For more than thirty years, Jeff has developed services that enhance quality of life. Recently he discovered that he also has something of a flair for killing people.
Jeff is an active member of the Mystery Writers of America. He loves to write early in the morning. "You can usually find me at my computer at 5:30 in the morning," he says, "plotting someone's murder."
Jeff's previous books include Who is Killing Doah's Deer? and A Minor Case of Murder.
Jeff Markowitz, It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Murder
