Robert leaped to his feet and executed a stylish pirouette across the black-and-white crazed rug; Gordon joined him at his halfway mark, and they finished together with an
“Oh, we haven’t lost our balletic skills!” Gordie cried. “Here’s a harder one-Aubergine.”
“Margarine. Ne’er was seen. Long string bean. Not that keen. Fast machine. Primp and preen.”
The elfin face looked sly. “Ah-Dodo?”
“HoJo. No-no. Old crow. So-so.”
“Darling, you are brilliant!” Gordie went back to his work station. “We will go through with this, Robbie, won’t we?”
“Yes, Gordie, we will. I promise we will.”
“I can’t, Hank,” said Amanda Warburton wretchedly. “I’m so sorry, but while I esteem you as a friend, I’ll never think of you as anything else. I stopped loving a long time ago, and the scars are too many and too deep to eradicate.” Eyes full of tears, she gazed at Hank piteously. “Please understand! It’s impossible, but that’s no reflection on you. I’d like to keep you as my friend, but you may find that an insult.”
Hank’s chief reaction to this rejection was a profound thankfulness that he hadn’t gone down on one knee to propose; it had occurred to him to do so, but something had restrained him-a subconscious knowledge that she would refuse him, probably. So he leaned back in his chair, released her hands, sighed, and tried valiantly to smile.
“No, I’m not insulted, and yes, I’d be glad to continue as your friend. We’ll forget that tonight ever happened. I’ll never refer to it again unless you do, not by look either.” He took a breath and managed to make the smile more genuine. “You’re fun to be with, Amanda. I’d hate to lose our dinners, games, times with Marcia and the animals. Is that all right?”
“Yes, Hank, of course it is! But for tonight, would you prefer that we called off dinner?”
“Good lord, why? Lobster Pot, Solo’s, Sea Foam, Jerry’s? Take your pick,” he said, sounding quite himself.
“Lobster Pot, please. Would you mind taking me to the Mall afterward? A new shipment from Orrefors came in just as I was leaving, and I’d like to get it unpacked. I left my car there and walked home, so it’s just the ride.”
“It’s more than the ride. I’ll help you unpack.”
And so it was arranged.
Amazing how life goes on, Hank thought as they settled into their customary booth; he ordered broiled scrod, she went for soft-shelled crab, and they both had a vinaigrette dressing on their salads. Their talk was perhaps a little stiffer than usual, but Hank held his end up heroically, and by the time they left for the Mall she was relaxed on one drink more than she normally had. Yes, they would get through this.
He was kicking himself for trying to move their relationship up a notch, though his sensible side insisted that if the answer was no, there was no propitious moment. The idea of her was stronger in him than her reality, but had it not been, he would never have dreamed his dreams or fantasized about their love-making. And it was true, hope did spring eternal; by the time they reached the back door of the Glass Teddy Bear, he was able to believe that at some time in the future, she would change her mind. Women always did, especially bolstered by the fact that a suitor had declared himself, then stuck around as a friend. What did they call such men?
He stood back for her to enter first.
“Oh, bother!” she exclaimed. “The light is out, and I can never find the switch panel for the others.”
“Here, I know.” Hank pushed her into the back room and flicked at the bank of switches Amanda could never find. “Gee, there must be a major fuse blown,” he said. “They’re all out.”
The blow fell on the side of his skull and crushed it in the manner of an eggshell-still in one piece, yet shattered to smithereens. Hank Murray was scarcely conscious what had happened, the blood poured into his cranium so rapidly. He was dead even as he hit the floor.
Dazed by a much lighter blow, Amanda was on all fours and crawling toward the shop when the black clad intruder straddled her, put a gloved hand in her mass of hair, yanked her entire trunk upward, and cut her throat clean to the backbone. The blood jetted out at arterial pressure, fine drops showering boxes and the wall behind them like paint from an air brush. The attacker stepped away to let her bleed out, a matter of scant minutes. Then, the business ended, he went into the shop. There, on a dolly and wrapped in padded cloths, the glass teddy bear waited. He swung the apparatus around and wheeled it through the back room on the far side from the blood, out the back door; glancing at Hank’s keys, he removed them and put them in a pants pocket. Despite the security, there was no one in sight; the attacker made sure his silenced pistol was where he could reach it in a hurry, then went to the service elevators. One opened the moment he pressed its button; he wheeled the dolly in and pressed the basement parking level. Again he was in luck; no sign of a guard.
Inside the door to the garage was a bank of alarms. Out came a paper; the attacker consulted it, punched one alarm. It was followed by a shriek and squeal of sirens three floors up, but before the guards in the garage could gather, he and his dolly were hidden in the janitor’s closet. As soon as the pounding feet died away, he wheeled his treasure trove through the door and into the garage, where his van stood parked only feet away. An electric platform carried the dolly up to the level of the van floor, where it was strapped into place. That done, the attacker wormed his way forward into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and was a mile away before anyone checked that entry to the garage. False alarm-wasn’t that typical?
It was noon on Thursday, November 21, before anyone thought to query Hank Murray’s absence and Amanda Warburton’s unopened shop. When Hank’s secretary couldn’t locate him or his keys, she phoned Captain Carmine Delmonico, whom she knew from the days of the Vandal. Oh, pray there wasn’t more trouble!
“Something’s up, sir,” she said. “I have spare keys-could you check the Glass Teddy Bear for me? Miss Warburton and Mr. Murray are great friends, now neither of them can be found.”
His detectives were out; Carmine decided to visit the Mall on his own. Why the secretary was so worried he couldn’t work out, except that some people have a nose for disaster, and he couldn’t afford to ignore someone with a nose whose accuracy he didn’t know. Alarm bells were ringing in him too, that was all.
On his way to the back corridor he passed the Glass Teddy Bear’s window, and his heart sank. The glass teddy bear wasn’t in it, nor were the dog and cat. At the back door he pulled on rubber gloves and examined the lock: no tampering. A turn of the key and he was inside, an almost dark expanse that reeked of blood. When no lights came on he backed out, keeping within his own footprints. Two security guards had turned up; he beckoned them over.
“Stay here and don’t touch a fucking thing,” he said. “I need a phone. Where?”
“The shipping desk, Captain-in there.”
“Where are the fuses for this shop?”
“In that wall cupboard, Captain.”
When he opened the cupboard door with another key he found the Glass Teddy Bear’s fuses in the off position; when Carmine did the up-down-up to switch them on, they stayed on. Someone had probably turned them off here.
At the shipping desk he found a phone. “Stella, tell Dr. O’Donnell I need an M.E. and a forensics tech at the Busquash Mall a.s.a.p. Where are my team?”
“Nick and Delia are here. Helen’s with the Judge.”
“Good. Send me Nick and Delia, please. It’s urgent.”
When he flicked the lights on this time, they revealed a shambles, though it was poor Amanda Warburton who had done the bleeding. Fourth time unlucky, he thought. Amanda had survived three attacks, but they were just the thief softening her up. Hank Murray had died because of his devotion to her. Fifteen big, sealed cardboard boxes said a new shipment had arrived; she and the faithful Hank had probably come in to unpack them. It looked like a huge amount of stock, but undoubtedly wasn’t. Glass came surrounded by relative oceans of packing materials.
Her face was distorted by terror, mute evidence of her last moments, but he didn’t think she had seen her attacker. He came at her from behind while she was crawling, Carmine deduced. Hank had died without a fight; never saw it coming, in all likelihood. There were no bloody footprints, no marks to say who the Vandal-was it the Vandal, or another, more violent predator?-might be. A different man, Carmine decided. His conviction that he knew the identity of the Vandal hadn’t budged. He went outside to speak to the guard.
