“Forgive me for being thick,” I interrupted. “Why since the inventory?”
John waved Frances’s objections away. He said, “It goes like this: A customer, say it’s you”—he gestured with an open hand—“makes a large cash purchase. Say you buy … a scarf. The employee makes a big show of putting your receipt in the bag, but instead he palms it.” He closed his hand. “Then the employee uses your receipt to do a cash refund to himself. If you discover you don’t have the receipt at the end of the day, you—the shopper— you say, oops, I musta lost it in all my shopping. And nobody’s the wiser until inventory time six months later, when they find out a scarf’s been shoplifted. Or at least, that’s what they think.”
“Oh, my,” I said. “And had Prince & Grogan suffered a lot of loss?”
“Prince & Grogan just did their big inventory in June,” Frances replied impatiently. “The store sharks were out to find out what had happened to thousands of dollars’ worth of shoes, costume jewelry, lipstick, and perfume. That’s probably why the security guy was so quick to come after you yesterday.” Her eyes narrowed to knowing slits.
“But why would Harriet not give me—” I began.
Frances said, “I think Mignon has told Harriet Wells that Dusty is a potential problem to the company. Mignon could have told Harriet that when a big cash sale is made, put in Dusty’s associate number. In other words, ring it up as if Dusty had made the sale. Then keep the receipt, and ring the return in as a cash refund, also to her associate number, so she looks guilty all the way around. And it’s all computerized, so it looks official. I’m telling you, they’re trying to frame her.”
“That’s quite a conspiracy, if you asked me.”
“Exactly. If you’ll pardon my saying so, it’s the cosmetics company, stupid.”
“Okey-doke,” I said, rising. This time I didn’t hold my hand out to John Routt, I just touched his forearm. “Thank you for telling me your whole story, Mr. Routt. Do you mind if I share it with my husband? He might want to come over and chat with you.”
John Routt’s voice caught in his throat. He seemed to sense I thought Frances’s theory was baloney. Perhaps he even suspected that I’d lost the receipt, which was what I suspected myself. After a moment he said, “Do you think we still have a chance? Will people care what happened in the past? Now that all these other crimes are happening? I don’t want Dusty to be hurt. She knows nothing of my dealings with Frances.”
“But it was through Dusty that you found out Claire had had other boyfriends? And Frances suspected one of them was a good-looking animal-rights activist?” I asked him.
He hung his head. No wonder Frances had seemed to have so much information so early. Right from the beginning, she’d developed speculations—bizarre guesses, as it turned out—to go with Claire’s being killed.
“Mrs. Schulz,” said John Routt, “do you think people will want to hear my story?”
“I hope so,” I said delicately. “Frances won’t give up,” I added truthfully. “You can count on her. Good luck.”
I excused myself and ran through the raindrops toward my house and my kitchen. Once I was safely ensconced in chopping a pile of mint leaves, I heard Frances’s Fiat roar away.
“Where’ve you been?” Julian asked as he toasted the kernels for the raisin rice.
“At the Routts’ place.”
“You were gone a long time.”
“I’m sorry. I’m working, I’m working.”
In my absence, Julian had finished the slaw. I swirled yogurt and the freshly chopped mint into the soup, and we continued to work together in silence. We had a quiet teamwork in the kitchen that I would sorely miss when he went off to school. I reached for the ingredients for fudge cookies and wondered how much round-trip plane tickets cost from Denver to Ithaca.
“Are you okay?” Julian asked as he poured stock over the golden brown rice and it let out a delicious, steamy hiss.
“Oh, yes.” What could have happened to that damn receipt? Had I ever had it? Had Harriet put it in the bag or handed it back to me with my change? But the change was in the bag. I’d never opened my wallet. “I just … Julian, why was Dusty expelled from Elk Park Prep?”
“I really have no idea. You know, they were about to move into the Habitat House, and I guess her mom begged the school authorities to hush it up. I mean, since the Habitat House was sponsored by the church and all. They didn’t want to look like the kind of people you wouldn’t want to have in your law-abiding middle-class neighborhood, I guess.”
Well, well. This undoubtedly was why I hadn’t heard through the, town grapevine that an ex-convict was living across the street. The Routts had managed to keep that quiet too. I asked, “Could Dusty have been expelled for stealing?”
He laughed. “Man, I doubt it. Right after she left, I had four CDs stolen from my locker. So if they threw Dusty out because they thought she was a thief, they didn’t get the right person. Why do you care?”
“Oh, I don’t know. She just seems so … needy or something. By the way, Arch called asking about you.” Julian raised his eyebrows. “So what should I have told him? How are you, Julian?”
He sighed. “Functioning. Listen, We’ve still got two hours before we’re due up at the Braithwaites’ place. If you think you can finish the rice, I’d like to take some food over to Marla’s house. Lowfat, of course.”
“Hey, I was born making fudge cookies and curry at the same time. But I should warn you—Marla’s storm- trooper nurse may not let you see her.”
He turned on our Jenn-Air grill and brought out some chicken breasts he’d marinated separately. “I don’t really need to see her. I just want her to … start eating again. What is it you’re always telling me?”
“When All Else Fails, Send in Food.”
“Exactly.” He laid the chicken pieces on the grill; they sputtered invitingly. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a regular meal. A caterer’s life. I stirred more of the cream alternative into the curry, took a final taste, and started in on the fudge cookies.
Julian started to tremble. When I looked over at him, he ran out of the kitchen and I finished the grilling. When he returned, his face splotchy, his eyes red, he said he didn’t want to talk. If that was okay. I said it was fine, and helped him wrap up a dinner care package for Marla.
After he left, that angry inner voice nagged at me as I carefully sifted flour and cocoa powder. Claire Satterfield’s death remained a bizarre, inescapable event. I whipped egg whites and added the dry ingredients, then stirred the whole concoction together. Tom wanted me out of the case. Sorry, Tom. Not when I must help Julian.
Before the store inventory, someone had been stealing from Mignon Cosmetics. One shoplifting theory was that employees palmed the merchandise receipts instead of giving them to customers, and then used the receipts later to get cash refunds. Who were the people there most often? Harriet, Claire, Dusty: All three knew the workings of the camera. But would they have dared to steal right in front of it? And of course there was Shaman Krill, who might have been involved in the thievery as part of his nasty campaign to destroy the cosmetics company. How could he get the receipts, if that indeed was how the shoplifting was done? If he shoplifted directly, then he might have been seen—or photographed—by Gentileschi or Stan White. Of course, if Nick Gentileschi had been unsavory enough to take surreptitious photos of Babs Braithwaite, there was no telling what other activities he could have been involved in. And then there was John Routt. He couldn’t see to shoplift, so he was out, and Frances was up in the stratosphere with her conspiracy theories.
That left Reggie Hotchkiss. The man with the wig. He had spied on Mignon, and he’d shamelessly copied their promo campaign for fall products. Would he also have tried to sabotage them?
I dropped perfect rounds of shiny fudge batter onto a cookie sheet, set the cookie sheet into the oven, and stirred the curry. Maybe Reggie Hotchkiss would be at the Braithwaites’ house tonight. Babs wanted to impress people, and the Hotchkiss Heir Apparent would be a perfect name for her guest list. I wondered who was doing her makeup.
I set aside the curry and rice to cool before Julian packed them into the van. Within half an hour he returned with the good news that although Marla was still asleep, the nurse had gratefully taken the dinner he’d brought and said his aunt had told her he was a brilliant cook. And yes, the nurse had said, Julian could come over tomorrow when I visited, as long as we didn’t upset Marla.
“Who, us?” I said with a laugh as I started frosting the cooled fudge cookies.
Without being asked, Julian packed up the curry and rice, opened the door to the walk-in, and began hoisting
