He seemed unsure about how he was doing, but then replied, “Not too good.”
“Must have been a shock.”
“Yeah.”
“How long have you worked here?”
“Three years this June.”
“Right after college?”
“Yeah.”
“Good job?”
“It’s okay.” He volunteered, “Pays the bills while I’m writing my novel.”
“Good luck.” Every store clerk and waiter in this town wants you to know they’re really a writer, an actor, a musician, or an artist. Just in case you thought they were a clerk or a waiter. I asked Scott, “What time did you get here this morning?”
He replied, “As I told the other policeman, I got here about seven thirty.”
“Right. Why so early?”
“Early?”
“You’re scheduled for eight thirty.”
“Yeah…Mr. Parker asked me to get here early.”
“Why?”
“To stock shelves.”
“The shelves look stocked. When’s the last time you sold a book?”
“I had some paperwork to do.”
“Yeah? Okay, take me through it, Scott. You got here, opened the door-front door?”
“Yeah.” He reminded me, “It’s all in my statement.”
“Good. And what time was that?”
“I opened the door a little before seven thirty.”
“And it was locked?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you know that Mr. Parker was here?”
“No. Well, not at first. I noticed the lights were on in his office up in the loft, so I called up to him.”
“I assume he didn’t answer.”
“No…he…so I thought maybe he was in here-in the stockroom-so I came in here to get to work.”
“And when you saw he wasn’t here, what did you think?”
“I…thought maybe he was in his bathroom upstairs.”
“Or maybe he ducked out for a ham and egg on a roll.”
“Uh…he…if he went out, he’d turn off the lights.” Scott informed me, “He’s strict about saving energy. Was.”
“Right.” Now he wasn’t using any energy. I said, “Please continue.”
“Well…as I said in my statement, after about twenty minutes I carried some books to the counter up front, and I called up to him again. He didn’t answer, but then I noticed something…I couldn’t see the top of his bookshelf.”
In fact, I’d noticed that bookshelf myself on my two or three visits here. You could see the top two or three shelves from the front of the store. But not this morning.
Scott continued, “I didn’t know what to make of that at first…and I kept staring up at the office…then I went halfway up the stairs and called out again, then I went all the way up and…”
Rourke said Scott looked nervous, but now Scott looked appropriately distraught as he relived that moment of horror when he found his boss flattened by a half ton of mahogany and books.
I didn’t say anything as he spoke, but I nodded sympathetically.
Scott continued, “I shouted his name, but…there was no answer and no movement…”
“How’d you know he was under there?”
“I could see…I wasn’t all the way up the stairs, so I could see under the bookcase…”
“Right. I thought you said you went all the way up the stairs.”
“I…I guess I didn’t. But then I did. I tried to move the bookcase, but I couldn’t. So I called 911 on my cell phone.”
“Good thinking.” I glanced at his statement and said, “Then you called Mrs. Parker.”
“Yeah.”
“How well do you know her?” He thought about that, then replied, “I’ve known her about three years. Since they started dating.”
“So they’re newlyweds.”
“Yeah.” He volunteered, “Married last June.”
“Previous marriage for him?”
“Yeah. Before my time.”
“How about her?”
“I think so.”
Recalling the photo on the deceased’s desk, I asked Scott, “How old is she?”
“I…guess about forty.”
Booksellers always get the young chicks.
I asked Scott, “Was she a nice lady?”
“I…guess. I didn’t see her much. She hardly ever comes to the store.”
By now Scott was wondering about my line of questioning, so I volunteered, “I like to get a feeling for the victim’s next of kin before I break the news to them.”
He seemed to buy that and nodded.
I asked Scott directly, “Did the Parkers have a happy marriage?”
He shrugged, then replied, “I don’t know. I guess.” He then asked me, “Why do you ask?”
“I just told you, Scott.”
Recalling that Scott told Tripani that Mrs. Parker worked at home, I asked him, “What does she do for a living?”
“She’s a decorator. Interior designer. Works at home.”
“Do you have any idea where she is this morning?”
“No. Maybe on a job.”
“Could she be out of town?”
“Could be.” He informed me, “She’s from LA. She has clients there.”
“Yeah?” LA. Who else do I know from LA? Ah! Jay Lawrence. Small world. I asked him, “Did she decorate this place?”
He hesitated, then replied, “No. I mean, not the store.”
“His office?”
“I don’t know. Yeah. I guess.”
“That’s three different answers to the same question. Did she decorate his office? Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Uh…I think about two years ago.”
“When they were dating?”
“Yeah.”
“So she put the bookcase up there?”
He didn’t reply immediately, then said, “I guess.”
Scott was a crappy witness. Typical of his generation, if I may be judgmental here. A little fuzzy in his thinking, his brain probably half-baked on controlled substances, educated far beyond his ambitions, marking time while he wrote the Great American Novel. But he did get to work early. So he had some ambition.
As for Mrs. Parker, I was concerned that she’d take it very badly if she was the person who bought that bookcase and failed to secure it to the wall. I mean, that would be hard to live with. Especially if she took those
