Chopping Spree

to talk to the cops, instead of to me. Fine. That was what he needed to do. Right before my eyes, Denver’s Most Eligible Bachelor had become its Most Eligible Basket Case.

Liz gave me the kitchenette key, then offered to treat Julian to dinner at the mall’s new gourmet sandwich shop. Julian arched an eyebrow in my direction. I shrugged and told them to go on. If I planned to follow through on my new resolve to keep better track of Arch, then I needed to give him a call.

I locked the kitchenette and dropped the key into my apron pocket next to my cellular. Amazingly, I’d remembered to bring the phone from the van. For the first time, I was glad I’d finally given in to Arch’s everyone’s- got-one-but-me cell-phone demand, even though I knew he’d resent what he called my “checking on him.” Tough tacks.

“Yeah.” This was his new cool-guy greeting.

“It’s Mom. I’m down at Westside—”

“Did you get my guitar yet? Did Marla find the new Palm pilot? How about the Internet watch?”

“I haven’t had time to do anything besides work. I don’t know about Marla. What are you doing?”

“Changing my clothes after lacrosse practice, Mom, what do you think I’m doing?”

“I was just worried—”

He groaned. “Mom, I have to go. Lacrosse practice is over, I’m cold, and Tom is waiting for me.” He paused. “Does this mean you won’t be buying my guitar today?”

“I just… well. Maybe we should talk later.”

He hung up, and I scolded myself for expecting meaningful communication at this stage of Arch’s life. My stomach growled. I popped out of the lounge and wandered past the mall’s alluring window displays and two huge common areas, one a coffee shop, the other an enormous play area where kids whooped it up as they leaped on and off hard rubber play sculptures in the shapes of fried eggs, toast, bacon, and pancakes. At length I came to a franchise restaurant where I wolfed down a depressingly cold steak sandwich, which tasted more of grease than beef. I had fifteen minutes before I needed to be back in the lounge. I tossed my trash, steeled myself, and went looking for Westside Music.

It was not until five-twenty that I scooted back out of the store. I was now the irritated, humbled owner of a seven-hundred-dollar electric guitar. Needless to say, the purchase had not proved to be as joyful as I had visualized. For some mysterious reason, my credit card company had balked at the purchase, despite the twenty-thousand-dollar limit they had recently bestowed on me. After running my card, the salesclerk had frowned, looked me over suspiciously, and announced in a loud voice, to me and all the people in line, that the sale had been denied. Did I, he asked loudly, want to pay by check, or not make the purchase? I blushed and meekly wrote out a check. Unfortunately, my card denial had rung alarms at Westside Music. While the people behind me groaned and muttered, I was forced to undergo a check-approval process that rivaled entering Pakistan without a passport.

Hauling the bulky guitar, I trotted past the breakfast sculptures—still filled with screeching kids—and past window displays that I willed myself to ignore. When I reached the steak place, I realized I’d walked the wrong way and was at the opposite end of the mall from the lounge. If I tried to stash the instrument in the van, I wouldn’t get back to the lounge until after the jewelry event began….

I gritted my teeth and raced back toward Westside Music. It was hard to ignore the curious stares from adults and children alike. A singing caterer works both ends of the mall? I ignored their gapes and tried to imagine Arch looking happy when he opened his gift. That happiness might last less than an hour, but so what? Besides, I had something else to look forward to: canceling that damn credit card.

I arrived, breathless, at the Westside Music counter. I paid no attention to the salespeople, whom I’d mentally dubbed the Smirking Clerks. I announced to the salesman who’d handled the botched card sale that I needed him to keep the guitar for me, please, until later in the evening. He informed me icily that they closed at nine. I’d be back by then, I vowed, and took off.

I stopped running only when I arrived at the lounge entrance. It now boasted two beefy security guards. Swirling around them was a chattering group of beautifully dressed women. They seemed to be milling about with the sole purpose of assessing one another’s outfits, makeup, jewelry, and shoes. Putting my sweat-drenched and rumpled caterer’s garb out of my head, I ducked past the women, then rummaged through my tote for ID. I flashed it at one of the guards, who nodded. Then I pushed through the service entrance to the kitchenette, washed my hands, and sped out to the main room.

To my surprise, the jewelry cases had also been covered with white damask cloths. I sprinted to the tables and about fainted with relief. Julian and Liz had set out everything. The food-laden buffet looked stunning.

“Hey, Ms. Punctuality,” Julian said, straight-faced. “Aren’t you glad Barry had a spare key to the kitchenette?”

“Sorry, really, both of you. And… what? Barry opened up for you?”

Julian nodded at the stage, where Barry, in fresh clothes and moving as if he, too, had downed a few painkillers, stood holding court with the band.

“He was looking for you,” Julian told me. “Oh, but you should know that he only opened the kitchen when we promised him we’d give him something to drink. Something alcoholic. He wanted it from us instead of the bartenders, because he didn’t want any of the salespeople to see him taking a nip. Several large nips, if the truth be told. So much for him being a caffeine guy.”

Liz giggled. Julian grinned broadly, happy to entertain.

“So,” I asked as we sauntered back to the kitchen, “did Barry ever talk to the cops?” They both shrugged. “How did you do with them, Big J?”

“State patrol just asked me the basics—you know, what happened and when. I told them you’d seen the accident, too, but they said they had plenty of witnesses, and since nobody had been hurt, they didn’t need to talk to you. Anyway, state patrol and the sheriff’s department officers told Victor to take them down to the truck. They told me to come, so I did. Get this. They found a pair of cuff links on the cab floor. Did we know whose they were, they asked. Victor said no, and so did I. So the cops put ’em in one of those brown paper bags. You know, the kind Tom uses for evidence.”

I stopped and arched an eyebrow at him. He grinned. “They were gold cuff links, Miss Nosy. They had two sets of initials on ‘em and some writing on the back.”

“Whose initials? What did the writing say?”

“I don’t remember all of the initials,” Julian replied. “The writing said something about making money. I don’t really remember what.”

“Julian.”

“OK, OK, I remember one set of initials was B. D. So maybe they were Barry’s.”

I thought again of Barry’s paranoia, how he’d wanted to talk to me, how he’d freaked out over the truck incident, how he’d then decided not to chat with me, but hustled back to his office.

“Go figure,” I murmured.

Liz shook her head. “All Barry Dean could think about was getting a drink. He slugged that expensive Burgundy straight from the bottle. Said he couldn’t take much more for one day.”

Julian added, “He said you were his old buddy and it would be OK—”

“Don’t worry,” Liz told me, “I threw away the rest of that bottle. Thirty-four bucks a pop, though. We should charge him extra.”

I made for the stage. Barry was plugging in his microphone. No question about it, the man cleaned up well. In fact, he looked downright spiffy in his tuxedo. As I got closer, though, I noticed his face was red and sweaty. Worse, he was a bit too obviously chewing on a mouthful of breath mints.

“We’ve got a videographer here,” he began, once he’d swallowed the candy. He pointed to another tuxedo- clad fellow clutching a camera. “Every woman attending gets a video of the event,” Barry went on, “so she can see herself in her chosen necklace or earrings. You’re not camera-shy, are you?” I groaned. “Don’t be nervous, we’ll cut any food accidents.”

“Actually, old buddy, what makes me nervous is you drinking wine straight from the bottle.”