Killer Market

« ^ » “The general good sense of the people is superior to their philosophy, even though the latter be clothed in the dignified solemnity of the Puritan, or wear the soft graces of the purely religious enthusiast.”The Great Industries of the United States, 1872

Trying to sound like a friendly non-threatening airhead with no ulterior reasons for calling except to get my own bag back, I said, “Ma’am? This is Deborah Knott. We had supper together at the food court this evening?”

Silence.

“Ma’am?” (No way was I going to risk offending her with any of the names she’d used in my hearing.) “I don’t know how I made such a silly mistake, but you remember those Fitch and Patterson tote bags they gave us? Well, we seem to have gotten them mixed up.”

More silence, but at least she hadn’t cut me off.

“So what I was wondering was if I could come and bring you yours and get mine because I left my car keys in it?”

“No, no, no!” Her husky voice held the same vehement withdrawal as when I’d suggested earlier that she might let me crash on her sofa.

Hastily, I amended, “Or maybe we could meet somewhere? I’m at Dixie Babcock’s office on the sixth floor of the Global Home Furnishings Market and she could bring me anywhere you say.”

I raised my eyebrows inquiringly at Dixie and she nodded.

“Please? I really do need my things tonight and I’m sure you want yours?”

“Go to the open door,” she said at last

I looked around wildly. The Southern Retail Furnishings Alliance suite consisted of Dixie’s office and two smaller ones, a generous reception area and an overcrowded work/storage area that housed the basic machines without which no modern office can function: fax, communal printer, copier, microwave and coffee maker. From where I stood, every door in sight was already wide open.

“Which open door?” I asked.

There was a barking sound at her end of the connection. It took me a moment to recognize that the sound was laughter.

“On North Centennial,” she said. “I will leave your bag with Yolanda and you may do the same with mine.”

“Yolanda who? And when will you be there?”

Too late. The connection was broken. I tried to call her back, but after three rings, an operator came on the line to inform me that the person I was calling was unavailable at that time.

Savannah must have found the Off switch.

“Not to worry,” Dixie told me. “North Centennial? She probably means the Open Door Ministry. It’s a shelter for the homeless and Yolanda Jackson runs the soup kitchen for the hungry. The Father’s Table. I’ve volunteered there a few times. It’s not far.”

“May I come with you?” asked Heather McKenzie.

“Only if you promise not to spook her before I get my purse back,” I said.

Dixie picked up her own purse and keys. As she began switching off lights, the phone rang.

“That’s either Pell or the baby-sitter wondering where we are,” she said and picked up the receiver. “Dixie Babcock… Oh, Mr. Sherrin.” Her voice flattened and then became artificially bright. “Good to hear your voice, too. When did you get in?”

She gave us a pained look and her free fingers pantomimed a ponderous male mouth opening and closing with pompous authority. After a couple of minutes in which her side of the conversation seemed limited to “Yes, I see, yes,” she put her hand over the mouthpiece and whispered, “One of the directors. He’s liable to talk another twenty minutes. Why don’t you two go on ahead and I’ll catch up with you at the shelter—yes, Mr. Sherrin, yes I do see, but—”

She tore a sheet off her scratch pad and drew us a rough map of where to go.

“We can take my car,” Heather McKenzie said. “It’s just over in the Holiday Inn parking lot.”

As we left, Dixie’s voice followed us down the now-deserted hall, “Yes… I see… yes…”

After nearly three hours of new-furniture smells, it felt good to get outside to a spring night in North Carolina. Despite dew-dampened streets, car exhausts, and occasional whiffs of fried food, there was an overarching sweet freshness to the April air. Cars and shuttle buses had melted away for the evening and now High Point’s Main Street was almost as traffic-free as I remembered.

Just as Dixie Babcock was probably ten years older than me—“Than I,” came Aunt Zell’s schoolteacher voice in my head—Heather McKenzie was probably ten years younger. She was also several inches shorter yet her stride matched mine as we crossed Main Street to the Holiday Inn, and she seemed to be enjoying the cool air, too. Her camel slacks and teal blue blazer looked expensive and fit her compact body stylishly but they weren’t exactly designed for April in North Carolina.

“Wasn’t that jacket hot today?”

“If it stays this warm, I’ll have to buy something cotton,” she admitted. “I wasn’t thinking clearly when I packed nothing but wool and corduroy.”

“This your first time in the South?”

“First time to really look around and enjoy.”

“Oh?”