Chopping Spree

purses disappeared. Instead, I thanked Julian for staying to help. And of course I would pay him, and Liz, too. Talking about her brought up a fresh worry. She and I had come down from Aspen Meadow together…. What if she couldn’t find Teddy? How would she get home? Did she have a cell phone? When I voiced this worry to Julian, he said Liz had his cell number. If she got stranded, she’d be sure to call.

By the time Julian and I had cleaned the kitchen—to make way for more mess—and reentered the lounge, the crowd had vanished. At my suggestion, Julian offered the remains of the buffet platters to the band and the jewelry salespeople. They pounced as if they hadn’t eaten for months. I smiled. “Free food” is always great publicity for my business. And after the evening’s crises, I needed all the help I could get.

I stacked more empty trays and carried them to the kitchen. As usual, Barry had done another of his disappearing acts. Stockham conflict or no, if Barry thought I was going to leave without my check for the staff gratuity, he was wrong.

After twenty minutes of washing platters and shuffling them to the van, we were almost done. Still no Barry. After all my admonitions about staying cool, I was starting to simmer.

“One of the musicians gave me a note the last time you were out at the van,” Julian said as he brought the last of the platters into the kitchen. “I thought it was for me, but it was for you. From Barry Dean.”

“A note? Or a check?”

Julian wordlessly handed me a single piece of paper.

Hey Goldy! it read. Great event, despite the problems. I have your check, and a tip for you, too. Meet me at the Prince & Grogan shoe sale at 8:30. Your buddy, B.

It sure didn’t feel as if Barry Dean was my buddy anymore. I glanced at my watch: quarter to nine. Great.

“Look, Julian, Barry’s being elusive. I’ve got to find him in Prince and Grogan to get our gratuity. And I need to pick up Arch’s guitar, too, before I get there.”

“You bought Arch a guitar?” Julian asked, his eyes brightening. “Why don’t you let me pick it up? It’ll save us some time.”

“You don’t know Westside Music. I’m not even sure they’ll let me have it, and I just paid them hundreds of dollars for the damn thing.”

When we hurried back out to the lounge, the lights were blinking. A bored voice from an unseen loudspeaker announced that the mall was closing in fifteen minutes. I looked around in dismay. Julian and I had done quite a bit, but at least twenty more minutes of cleanup awaited us.

“Look,” Julian said, aware of my problem. “I’ll finish the cleanup extra fast while you nab the guitar and the check. Then I’ll meet you back here, say, no later than ten after nine. They won’t lock us in, I’m sure. Plus, that’ll give Liz time to call if she doesn’t find Teddy. Then we can drive in convoy out of the lot. I don’t want you all driving out of here on your own, what with killer truckers on the loose. You’d better leave now, though, in case Westside Music closes early. You can always get the staff gratuity check later, you know.”

In the catering biz, “getting the check later” was not something you should ever do. Food is perishable; events get messed up; people decide not to give you your money. But I had no time to remind Julian of all that. I needed to get Arch’s guitar. I thanked Julian and dashed out of the lounge.

The mall was finally emptying. Rolling metal gates had been drawn halfway down most stores’ entrances. Shoppers, weighed down with bags, straggled toward the exits. Strobe lights flashed overhead, and unseen speakers warned customers to shove off. Only one family remained at the bacon-and-eggs area. Their young son, perhaps four years of age, was clinging to an oversized piece of toast.

“I can’t leave the bwed alone tonight,” he howled. “The bwed will be lonely!”

I walked faster and prayed that Tom and Arch had arrived home safely from lacrosse practice. Had Shane left his mild-mannered assistant in charge of the usual carnage at practice, I wondered, while he came here to the mall to threaten his wife and me?

At Westside Music, a much-body-pierced young woman was guarding the front doors. When I arrived, she lifted her metal-dotted chin and announced in a chilly voice that the store was closed. But I could see a clerk at the register, the same fellow who’d waited on me in the first place. I said I’d only be a minute, pushed past the sparkly gatekeeper, and scurried over to the salesclerk. Deep in thought, he was counting the contents of the cash register, one bill at a time, very slowly, mouthing twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty- five….

“I need my guitar, please,” I said sweetly.

The guy shook his head without looking up and kept counting. I could see the guitar leaning against a CD case behind him. I rummaged through my pockets and pulled out the crumpled receipt.

“Please, sir. I’m not here to cause you trouble. Just keep counting and hand me that guitar I’ve already bought—”

Again, the clerk shook his head. Overhead, the lights in the store dimmed. Once more, I asked him to hand me the guitar; the fellow acted as if he had not heard a word I’d said. One more reason to discourage Arch from joining a garage band: Musicians go deaf fast.

“Well,” I persisted, keeping my tone light, “since it’s clear you don’t give a fig about customer service, I’m just going to take matters into my own hands.” The clerk wrinkled his brow but did not cease counting. I moved closer to the cash register.

“We’re closed!” bellowed Body-Pierce Gal from the entrance.

Startled, the deaf cash-counter glanced up as I sidled in behind him and grabbed Arch’s guitar. Tucking it under my arm, I waved the receipt at him. He peered at it, then frowned and nodded. I raced toward the exit. Mission accomplished, I thought. I sprinted past the startled gatekeeper and headed for Prince & Grogan, Barry Dean, and the money Liz and Julian seemed so intent on refusing.

At the entrance to Prince & Grogan, I pulled the guitar to my chest and zipped inside. The P & G employees were busying themselves with their tallies. Where had Barry’s note said he’d be? Ah yes, the shoe sale. In the far right corner of the main floor, I spied an enormous banner: Red Tag Shoe Sale!!! Clutching the guitar, I sped toward it.

Making a straight path to shoes proved a challenge, however. Scented air seduced my nose to the perfume counter. Brightly colored spring outfits on impossibly slender mannequins made me wonder if I’d ever again have a slim figure. Probably not. My cross-store hike was slowed by the dimming of lights and relentless announcements that the store was closing.

I skittered around departments and displays until I finally landed at a large area denoted by a fancy-script sign: Ladies’ Shoes. In the plush P & G redo of two years ago, the shoe department had been outfitted with thick beige carpet, beige-striped loveseats, and brown-patterned chairs. Artfully placed among the furniture were glass-topped tables that probably had been neatly stacked with shoes before the Tornado of Shoppers blew through. On either side of the sign, two tall, deep cabinets held only a few sandals teetering from shelves. Unfortunately, the department held no Barry.

A couple of salespeople were picking their way through piles and piles and piles of shoes. Their probing gait, as they sorted and boxed footwear, reminded me of beachcombers’. Another salesperson was frowning at the only open cash register. I held the guitar high as I wended my way toward her, dodging picked-over pumps, boots, sandals, slippers, and loafers, all of which lay higgledy-piggledy across the floor. Perhaps Barry had been here, and given the saleslady our check. Or, following his usual style, maybe he’d written another note about where to go for payment. If this was going to be like the hunt for the psych classnotes, it was going to be a very long night.

“Excuse me, but have you seen Barry Dean, the mall manager?” I asked politely.

The clerk gently closed the cash register and gave me a sympathetic look. “I sure haven’t. Sorry.”

“I was the caterer for the Elite Shoppers party,” I attempted again, still hopeful. “I’m just trying to get our final check. Could he have left a note for me?”

She gestured to the beachcombers. “They might know. They’ve been working here longer than I have.”

I thanked her and looked around. To avoid the mountains of shoes, I decided to backtrack to the edge of the department, then make a straight shot past the cabinets to the workers. Another overhead announcement reminded customers that the store was closed, and that all salespeople needed to check