Murder in Store Read online

  Nonetheless, on the way to work, I stopped for breakfast at a fast-food place and, by the time I walked out of the cold, crisp January morning and into Hauser’s I felt almost human. Early morning at the store was always a good time of the day for me, like standing on the stage in a theater, before the curtain goes up. The crew rushes to get the furniture and props in place as the cast comes on stage, adjusting a costume or giving a final bit of polish to that troublesome line, and I was in on the magic that makes it all work.

  Jefferson Potts, the senior security guard, held the door for me. That was his function prior to store opening: he made sure that no customers happened to stroll in with the employees. He wore the Hauser green uniform as if it ranked him a rear admiral, politely joked with the clerks, and didn’t miss a thing.

  “Rough night last night, Mr. McCauley?” He winked. “Looks like you slipped shavin’ too.”

  I shook my head and said, “Self-inflicted pain is the worst kind.”

  “Yea, well just think how good you’ll feel tomorrow.” “If I survive.”

  When you first walk into Hauser’s, your senses are attacked from all angles, struck by the apparent enormity of the place—apparent because what you see is partly illusion. The main floor is one huge room with dark, polished hardwood floors, massive pillars, and glass display cases grouped to give an uncluttered appearance. If you stand in the middle of this room and look up, you can see straight to the ceiling five stories above. Each floor is a balcony surrounding and overlooking the main floor, enclosed in dark wood banisters and railings. A combination of the old and new pulls it all together.

  The store was built in 1883 to the specifications of Fritz Hauser, Preston’s grandfather. And about all that had

  changed since then was the merchandise and the plumbing. The smell of polish and hardwood still mingled with the scents of women’s perfumes.

  The clerks were carefully screened and selected—no gum snapping, bored-to-tears high school students languishing behind the counters here. One needed experience, poise, and a whole lot of tact to get and keep a sales job at Hauser’s.

  After slapping on a little of the men’s after-shave from a display, I headed for the elevators and my office on the third floor. Halfway there I changed my mind and turned toward the accessories section. Pam Richards was folding cashmere scarves and arranging them in an antique glass display case. She didn’t see me approach and I nearly took that opportunity to retreat. We hadn’t talked very much in the last few months, but we shared some nice memories and I didn’t think there were any hard feelings. Pam wasn’t the kind of woman to keep herself out of circulation for long. For all I knew, she was involved with someone now. One thing I did know was that I needed the company of another human being or this evening was going to be a repeat of the previous one. One night of a bottomless glass of scotch could be cathartic. More than that began to qualify you for a lost weekend.

  “Hi,” I said, approaching the counter. “Preparing for the big after-Christmas giveaways?”

  If I surprised her, she didn’t let on. She looked at me as though I had disturbed her reverie, then caught herself and laughed. “Yeah, some deal. Sixty dollars marked down from eighty-five.”

  “I’ll take two,” I countered. When she didn’t respond I said, “How’ve you been?”

  I noticed she wasn’t wearing her glasses anymore. She must have won the battle with her contact lenses. And there was something different about her hair. It was the same style she always wore, but seemed softer, fuller. The

  vivid blues and greens in her dress did nice things for the color of her eyes.

  “I’ve been okay.” She shrugged. “I hear you’ve been keeping busy.” She continued to move the scarves around as if there were only one perfect arrangement and she hadn’t quite found it yet.

  “Yeah, well, you know how those things go.”

  “Yes. I do.” Chilly?

  “How about lunch?”

  After a long pause she shook her head, then asked, “Where are you living?”

  “At the Lincoln. Nothing but the best.”

  “It beats a cardboard box on lower Wacker.”

  I nodded and turned to leave. This had been a bad idea. “Maybe some other time.”

  “Quint. When did you move to the Lincoln?”

  “Last night.”

  She nodded her understanding. “Ask me again in a couple weeks. Maybe then.” “Sure,” I said.

  I understood her reluctance and had, in fact, practiced my own style of self-preservation on occasion. Still, I sure wasn’t looking forward to another night with my silent partner.

  I met Fred Morison, one of my floor detectives, in the elevator. I’ve never been much of a stickler as far as a dress code for the floor detectives goes. I just tell them to dress so they blend in with the crowd at Hauser’s. I’m pretty lenient because I also understand that a floor detective at Hauser’s doesn’t have that much money to spend on clothes. Seeing Morison made me wonder if maybe it was time either to issue a memo or give everyone a raise.

  Left to his own devices Morison would undoubtedly wear something along the line of a green polyester suit and a canary yellow shirt As it was, his suit was rumpled and overdue

  for a trip to the cleaners, and his belly strained at the buttons on his shirt. Whenever it occurred to him he would hoist his vanishing waistband up over his stomach, suck it all in, then thrust his hands in his pants pockets so that within a minute he was back to where he started. He had a nervous way of addressing people, avoiding eye contact, that used to make me wonder if I’d forgotten to put my pants on or my tie had a gaping hole in it Morison had been at the store for seven years—a lot longer than I—and I had sensed some resentment ever since our first introduction. When I was introduced to Morison, the first thing he said to me was, “So, you’re the guy they gave my job to. Well, at least you’re not a woman.”

  This morning he glanced past me and said, “I hear you nabbed the Silver Fox last night.”

  There was something I didn’t like about his attitude. “Is that the title you’ve given her?”

  “Oh no, not me,” Morison was quick to point out. “That’s what’s going around though. Hard to figure. Woman with looks like that and money coming out the kazoo. She must get hot walking around with silk pants in her pockets.”

  The elevator doors opened at that moment and I was able to ignore his remark. Morison was either incredibly ignorant or a troublemaker. Either way I didn’t trust him.

  I was a few minutes later than usual getting to my office. There were already several phone messages waiting for me when I sat down with my mug of coffee. The first was from Millicent Wagner, the woman who was coordinating the gem show at Hauser’s. She’d be out the rest of the morning and would call me in the afternoon. Another was from a security-system company, probably selling the foolproof, burglar-proof alarm.

  And the third message. Ah yes, I thought. This one I half expected. I studied the two words. “Call Maggie.” I knew what she wanted and it wasn’t to have my suits returned to

  my foot-and-a-half of her tiny closet. Maggie hated to hurt things, but not enough to change her abrupt and straight-forward manner. She probably realized that she had played fast and loose with my feelings.

  I recalled one Saturday afternoon a month or so ago when Maggie and I stopped at O’Banyon’s Pub with a small group of friends for a few beers and some salted peanuts in the shell. Maggie and a third-year student got into a heated debate over some legal point, and she verbally ground her opponent to mincemeat. Maggie was unflinching and irrepressible in her arguments. The other woman was totally outclassed. Later, Maggie felt so lousy about the trouncing that she couldn’t sleep. Finally she called the woman at three a.m., apologizing and extracting forgiveness from her.

  Maggie’s friends are used to this and put up with it the same way you put up with the eccentricities of a favorite aunt. It’s almost part of her charm. I was used to her ways too, but I
wasn’t ready to absolve her, not while still nursing a hangover. I tossed the message, crumpled, into the wastebasket.

  I leaned back in my chair, propped my feet on the desk, and allowed myself a moment to bask in a glow of well-being. This must be how a junkie feels when he tosses the needle down the sewer grid. Then the sound of the telephone dragged me back to reality. Hauser’s had one of those new phone systems—they don’t ring, they warble. I answered it.

  “Mr. McCauley, this is Irna Meyers. Mr. Hauser would like to meet with you today to discuss the security plans for the gem show. Is ten o’clock convenient?”

  I pictured Hauser; I pictured Diana; I hesitated for a moment, digesting the message. I said, “Ah, let’s see,” and hoped she would interpret the hesitation as the sound of a man trying to squeeze the boss into his already crowded

  schedule. “Ten o’clock? Yes, that will be all right.”

  “Would another time be more convenient?” She worded it as a question, but the tone of her voice said there was only one answer.

  “No. No. Ten o’clock is fine. I’ll be there.” I hung up the phone and loosened my tie.

  Well, I allowed myself, she did catch me off guard. Panic was not an abnormal reaction, given the situation. Preston Hauser had never consulted with me about security plans or for any other reason. Hauser made little pretense about the fact that he was a figurehead for his store, preferring to let Griffin run the operation. Hauser was there for ribbon-cutting ceremonies and to lend his famous and respected name to various foundations and benefits. He made perfunctory appearances and staffed a secretary, but that was the extent of his involvement in the store his grandfather and father had established. Prior to the incident involving Diana Hauser, I had not received more than a nod of recognition from the man. And now he wanted to consult with me on security. “Fat chance,” I said.

  Hauser’s secretary stood guard over the door to his office like a dragon protects its cave filled with bones and treasure. Irna Meyers motioned me into a chair and finished typing a letter. Then she walked over to Hauser’s office door. “Wait here,” she said to me before entering.

  Irna Meyers was the sort of secretary a jealous wife might choose for her husband. Mid sixties, tall, stout, and buxom, she could have passed as one of Wagner’s Valkyries. Or maybe Mrs. Nagel, my sixth-grade principal.

  Irna reappeared. “Mr. Hauser will see you now.” She held the door open for me and watched my progress from the chair into her boss’s office as if I might stray or toss a grenade in. I was relieved when she closed the door behind me, leaving me alone with Hauser.

  He stood up as I entered the room and extended his

  hand. I was, once again, struck by his appearance. This man would not slip out of character. His ramrod posture accentuated his massive build.

  “Thank you for finding the time for this meeting.” His tone was so sincere that I almost believed he meant it. As he sat down he motioned me to take the chair across from him.

  He looked at me closely, as if trying to figure out what was different. “Don’t you usually wear glasses?”

  “No,” I said. “I shaved off my mustache.”

  “Ah,” he said, nodding.

  I glanced around Hauser’s spacious office. The walls were paneled in dark wood, and his desk was a massive piece of oak, undoubtedly an antique. The smell of old leather and furniture polish permeated the room. I wondered if the office had changed much at all in the three generations of Hausers. Oil paintings of Hauser’s father and grandfather hung on the walls to the right and left. I noted that the family resemblance had been diluted through the generations, although each man had that same commanding presence. Behind Hauser’s desk was an exceptional view of Michigan Avenue.

  There were three framed photographs in front of him. Two were angled so I couldn’t see the subjects, but the one on the far right was in my view and was very definitely Diana Hauser. It was taken by the lake and she had a windblown, relaxed look that might or might not have been posed. She seemed more casual and approachable in the tweed jacket than she had in cashmere and fur.

  “Isn’t she something?”

  He said that like he was proud of his creation, which struck me as an attitude that even a man as powerful as Hauser shouldn’t have. Then I realized that he wasn’t looking at the same picture I was. He apparently assumed I had a partial view of the center picture and now he turned it to face me.

  He was right. She was something. As far as horses went, that is.

  “Do you know Arabians?” Hauser asked.

  “Only what I picked up from the Black Stallion books.”

  He smiled like we now shared something important Then he turned back to the picture. “I don’t think God ever created a more perfect creature.” Then he sighed and added, with a touch of irritation in his voice, “Diana hates her.”

  I decided that Hauser had some serious problems with his priorities but figured it was probably useless to argue with a man who places a horse’s picture between one of his wife and whatever the other one might be—probably his mother.

  Hauser dragged his attention from the animal and cleared his throat before speaking again. “Thank you for handling that matter with Mrs. Hauser.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “She has always been rather unpredictable.” He sighed and nodded to himself. “But I suppose that is what you have to expect when you take a high-spirited young woman like that for your …” His voice trailed off.

  It seemed to me that Hauser was describing a high-strung horse he had just added to his stable rather than his wife. I wondered if he always discussed his marital situation so casually, but decided I didn’t want to get into it further. “You wanted to talk about the security plans for the gem show?”

  Hauser stared at the leather-framed blotter on his desk for a moment before looking up at me. “Actually, no,” he said.

  I waited.

  3

  HE PLACED HIS clasped hands on the blotter and leaned forward like the president does when he addresses the nation from his oval office. “I want to hire you to do some investigating for me. Personally.”

  He opened his mouth to speak, but a tinny beeping sound interrupted him. He pressed a button on a watch that resembled the instrument panel of a DC-10 and cut off the noise. “Excuse me. This is one of my oldest rituals.” He smiled to himself. “There aren’t many things you can count on anymore are there?”

  From a desk drawer he produced five bottles filled with various kinds of pills. He removed a capsule from each bottle, set them in front of him on the blotter, and poured a glass of ice water from a pitcher on his desk. He took each pill, one at a time, knocking it back like a shot of scotch chased with precisely two swallows of water.

  Almost as an afterthought, he offered me one. “Vitamin?” I shook my head and waved it off. The last vitamin I had taken I had to chew.

  “I’ve been swearing by these little devils since my football days.” He turned the picture that had been out of my line of vision. It was of Hauser, circa 1950, in full football regalia, poised on the verge of hurling the football, no doubt, into the end zone and the waiting arms of the receiver. The pose was both corny and impressive.

  He replaced the photo. When he spoke again his manner and tone were, once again, formal and precise, almost

  as if he’d rehearsed. “As I was saying, I would like to hire you, but I also want you to understand that although you work for me at Hauser’s, you are in no way obligated to take this assignment.”

  I hoped he wasn’t about to ask me to follow Diana around to see if she was stepping out of line. I didn’t think I had the stamina for that, and there was no way I bought the line about not being obligated.

  Hauser continued. “I will explain generally what it is I want you to do, tell you what I will pay you to do this for me, and then, if you are interested, I will apprise you of the details. If you decide you would rather not, that will be it. I will not mention it again, and y
ou, in turn, will forget what I have told you. You have already demonstrated that you are a man who can be trusted so I have no qualms about taking you into my confidence.”

  My common sense told me to thank the man, tell him I was flattered by his show of faith, and then get the hell out of there before I had to worry about talking in my sleep. But my curiosity made me say, “I’m listening.”

  “Let me explain everything before you ask any questions.”

  Hauser had an eloquence that matched his presence. His voice was deep and resonant and what he had to say was even more commanding than the way he said it. It was easier to listen than to interrupt or let your mind wander.

  “For the past two months, I have been receiving subtle death threats. I say subtle because the threat is implied rather than overt. I do not want to involve the police at this point because, as I said, these threats are not blatant. I do not want to be perceived as a paranoid millionaire. And second, it is possible that these threats come from someone within this company. I will pay you ten thousand dollars to do the best job you can. I will give you that money when you accept the case.

  “If, after conducting as thorough an investigation as you are capable of, you are unable to produce the person threatening me, you will be absolved of any responsibility in the matter. The money is still yours. What I do from there on is my business. I know you have some experience in police work, so I’m certain you aren’t a total neophyte at this sort of thing. I believe you will give me my money’s worth.” Hauser nodded at me, indicating that I could respond now.

  His stating that I wasn’t a total neophyte seemed to indicate that the difference was only a matter of degree. But then, he was willing to invest ten grand in me. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I had been insulted and flattered in the same speech. I didn’t know whether to feel angry or elated. I settled for leery.