Killer Market

The cuisine tended toward northern Italian and ordering took time as Judge Simmard conferred with the waiter about appropriate wines.

A Beaujolais and a Macon Blanc arrived at our table and were poured and then lifted in toast “Welcome to High Point my friends,” said Judge Simmard, “and here’s to a killer market for everyone—figuratively speaking, of course!”

There was a moment of shocked silence, then Chick Simmard flushed like an embarrassed schoolboy. “Oh, my goodness! Jay, Elizabeth, I’m so sorry. How stupid of me to forget. I do apologize.”

The Pattersons made appropriate murmurs.

“That’s right,” said Han in flawless, colloquial English. “Nolan was your VP of Sales, wasn’t he, Patterson?”

Albert Han was solidly built, fortyish, and urbane. His gold watch and signet ring were clearly expensive, yet unostentatious. His dinner jacket was impeccably tailored and his nails were more beautifully manicured than mine.

“Do the police have a suspect yet?” he asked Simmard.

“I’m afraid I know nothing more than you,” he said, smiling at Han blandly as he turned to Jay Patterson and the quiet woman between them on his other side.

Since he knew enough to send me his phone number through Detective Underwood, I appreciated Simmard’s discretion.

As our appetizers appeared, so did three attractive young women. Drew Patterson and a couple of her friends stopped to say hello on their way to the jazz bar downstairs. There were shadows under Drew’s eyes that hinted at the sadness of the past two days, but she was still lovely in a midnight blue dress that clung to her upper body, then flared at her knees for dancing.

“Ah, the Princess Patterson!” said Simmard as the other men rose. “Forgive me if I don’t stand, my dear.”

“Oh, don’t get up for me,” she said, her hand on the back of his wheelchair.

It was evidently an old joke between them and she dropped a kiss on his jowly cheek as she greeted her parents’ friends and smiled at me across the table.

She really was a princess, I thought. Poised and well-schooled in graciousness, yet nevertheless basking in her position and their approval. And if there was a trace of “I’m entitled” in her smile, well, who could blame her for growing up a little spoiled when one saw such overwhelming pride on Jay Patterson’s face and such uncritical love in Elizabeth’s eyes?

They left, and the noise level in the room continued to climb until conversation was possible only with the persons nearest, so I turned to Albert Han and asked the usual questions. He volunteered interesting facts about rattan and wicker and some amusing anecdotes regarding the perils of international trade. And he was courteous enough to ask me about life as a district court judge. I responded in kind with the tale of two drunk hunters who shot up a strip of retread from a tractor-trailer tire thinking it was an alligator.

Chick Simmard was back for the punch line and chuckled appreciatively. “I heard about that the last time I was down in Beaufort. Darlene Leonard was telling it. She speaks mighty highly of you, Judge Knott.”

“Please, it’s Deborah,” I said. “And I think highly of Mrs. Leonard, too.”

As he and Han began to exchange deep-sea fishing experiences, I glanced at Lester Craft on my left. He was at the fringe of a four-way conversation between the Pattersons, the Chicago robotics executive and the quiet woman who, I’d decided, was not Mrs. Simmard, and he seemed more than willing to turn to a one-on-one.

“Are you with the furniture industry, too?” I asked.

He smiled. “You could say so. I’m the editor of Furniture/Today.”

Normally a slick, full-color weekly, the tabloid-size trade paper comes out every day during Market with fresh updates on what’s hot, who’s buying, national and international trends, and provocative columnists, along with who’s hosting the best parties, and discreet gossip. Today’s front page carried as much news as was known about Chan’s death: Chandler Nolan Dies at Market/Foul Play Suspected in Sales Veep’s Death.

“I understand you’re a friend of Nolan’s mother-in-law,” he said. “And that you were with her when she found him.”

“Is that what Heather told you?” I parried.

“Who?”

“Heather McKenzie.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think I know anyone by that name.”

I smiled. “I wouldn’t have thought your editorial staff was so large that you wouldn’t know all your reporters.”

He continued to look at me blankly, still shaking his head. “We don’t have a Heather McKenzie on our staff.”

“But she has a Furniture/Today press badge. She’s a reporter—”

“Not for me, she’s not,” he said emphatically.

Could he be right? I remembered thinking her word choice was odd at the Century showroom when she said “I may actually get a real article after all.” And what else had she told me? “I think she’s on assignment from your Massachusetts office? Writing profiles of important Market figures?”

Massachusetts was the magic word. His face cleared as he finally recognized Heather’s name.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “The freelancer. Right.”

I decided that it might be fun to get Lester Craft into a poker game.