Chopping Spree

“Barry and I… were old friends.”

“How were you old friends?”

Hulsey glared at me in warning.

“We went to C.U. together,” I answered tentatively. What could be incriminating about that? “He studied architecture. I was a psychology major. He sat next to me in a psych class, shared his notes with me, and asked me out for coffee. We drank a lot of cappuccino together. He called me his coffee buddy.” Collins raised an eyebrow. “We were not romantically involved. Barry told me I shouldn’t marry my first husband, and he turned out to be right.”

“How about lately?” asked Collins, uninterested in the criminal doings of Doctor John Richard Korman, my ex. “Maybe you weren’t involved with Dean in school, but lately, did things change?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Both cops gave me practiced blank expressions. “No, Detectives, we were not ever romantically involved. Never.”

“Why did Barry Dean hire an old college friend to do mall catering?”

“Because a mutual friend, Ellie McNeely, recommended me. Plus, I think he might have seen my picture in the paper.”

“Which picture was that? The one from a couple of years ago, when you found another body in Prince and Grogan?”

“No,” I said stiffly. “It was from this February, when I finished a job in Aspen Meadow. Catering for the Hydes. Heard of them?”

Collins’s lips twitched in a distinctly ghoulish grin. “You mean,” he asked, “that photo in the Suburban section, showing you all wet? After you fell into the moat at Hyde Castle?”

“I didn’t fall into the moat, I jumped into it. And that was to get away from someone who was chasing me.”

Hulsey cleared his throat. His eyes drilled into me: SHUT. UP.

Collins shifted in his chair. “But you didn’t get away from someone who hit you with a guitar. Was that because tonight, you recognized the person who was chasing you?”

“Nobody was chasing me, that I know of. I didn’t even hear the person come up behind me. If I had, I might have avoided getting whacked with a guitar.”

“Was that person Julian Teller?”

“No.”

Collins shook his head disbelievingly. “The catered event ended. You and Julian Teller made trips to take your equipment back to your van, yes?”

“Yes. And then I came back and Julian—who is one of my assistants—told me…” I could feel my anger rising. Why had they asked if Julian had hit me? “Actually, Julian handed me a note that Barry had given one of the musicians. It said he—Barry—had my gratuity for me.”

There was a silence. “We need to see that note,” decreed Sawyer.

I fished into my apron pocket, careful not to disturb the prescription bottle tucked there, then pulled out the crumpled note and slapped it on the table. So much for fingerprints, I thought belatedly.

Hulsey asked permission to see the note and to have a photocopy made as soon as possible. The cops nodded yes. My lawyer bent over the paper, pulled out a tiny brushed-gold notebook, and wrote in it. The cops announced that they were going to have the handwriting analyzed. Inwardly, I groaned. Did Barry’s script look like Julian’s?

Collins gave me a puzzled look. “I have your check, and a tip for you? You called it a gratuity.”

My frustration clouded to confusion. A tip for you. A tip like a police tip? And earlier, after the truck accident: Goldy, could we have our little chat later, at the party?

“I did think the check was our gratuity. Barry had wanted to talk to me. Earlier in the day, he had said he wanted to have a chat.”

“Wanted to chat with you about what, exactly?” Collins rasped.

“Excuse me.” Steve Hulsey’s deep rumble made me jump. “I won’t allow my client to be taken out in a boat to go fishing with you guys. Finish this up.”

Collins’s glum expression did not change. “So you went to the Prince and Grogan shoe department, in search of this tip. Any idea why he wanted to meet you in Shoes?”

“I’m warning you again, Detective,” interjected Hulsey, who moved impatiently in his chair. “Fish again, and I’m reeling in the line.”

“Mrs. Schulz,” said Collins, unperturbed and persistent. “After you received this note, did you go directly to Prince and Grogan to rendezvous with Mr. Dean?”

I had never realized how ugly the word rendezvous could sound. “No. I already told you, I had to pick up my son’s guitar at Westside Music. That took,” I added, before he could ask, “about five, ten minutes at most. After I picked up the guitar, I headed into Prince and Grogan, again, as I told you before. The store was closing and people were cleaning up, counting the contents of cash registers, like that.”

“Who knew you had to get the guitar first?”

“Well, my two assistants. Liz Fury had asked to take off early, because her son had been forced out of the mall, as I told you. She wanted to find him.” Another glare from Hulsey stopped me from elaborating. “And of course Julian Teller knew I had to go back to the music store. He stayed in the lounge and promised to finish packing up. He’s very good that way. Hardworking. Caring. And honest,” I added, pointedly.

“Then what?”

“Well, if you read the note, you’ll see Barry was expecting me about half past eight. But it was quarter to nine by the time I received his message, and I still had to pick up the guitar for my son’s birthday.” I waited for them to ask me how old Arch was or when his birthday was, but they were silent. “So I was running late when I arrived in Shoes. Barry wasn’t there. I asked the cash register lady if she’d seen him. She hadn’t, so I thought I’d try the two salespeople who were cleaning up. But I slipped on the shoes—”

“You slipped on them,” commented Sawyer, ever the skeptic.

“Yes. I was carrying the guitar, and it was heavy, and the women had dumped the shoes in piles all over the place. Leather is slippery,” I said fiercely, giving them a glare of my own. “I stumbled, fell, and hit one of those big cabinets. One of the doors came open, and I saw what I thought was a mannequin in a tuxedo, but… it groaned. I… It was Barry. I tried to pull him out, and he groaned again, and then I saw all the blood. I took his pulse. It was weak. And then I guess I was going to do a compression—”

“You didn’t call for help?” Sawyer again.

I took a shaky breath. After a moment, I said, “No. I didn’t. I should have, in retrospect. But my theory now is that whoever was trying to kill him was right behind the cabinet, waiting to finish the job. As soon as the salespeople left, after I’d pulled Barry out of the cabinet and checked for his pulse, the killer whacked me with the guitar. He or she wanted to get me out of the way and finish the job—”

Collins held up a hand, then spoke slowly. “Did you see who hit you?”

“No, I didn’t see a thing. I didn’t hear anybody’s voice, either. One minute I had Barry’s wrist in my hand, the next my head was smashed and I saw nothing but black. After a bit, I heard Julian calling me, and someone waved ammonia in my face. Then you guys showed up, and I was carted to the hospital. And now we’re here.”

Collins said, “Did you see the weapon used to kill Barry Dean?”

There was a silence. I had not told Hulsey about this; now I wondered what in the world to say. The last thing I wanted to do was implicate Julian, Liz, or myself any further. But refusing to answer would look worse. And lying… what would that do?

“Yes,” I said quietly. “I saw it. It was… one of my knives. From a new set I bought recently.”

Collins opened his mouth to ask another question, but Steve Hulsey was too quick for him.

“That does it, gentlemen. Thank you.” He stood and motioned for me to do the same. I got to my feet too quickly and swayed, suddenly dizzy. I blinked, saw my chair, and grabbed the metal back.

“Mrs. Schulz, please don’t leave town,” intoned Sawyer, as he slapped his notebook closed. My kick-ass lawyer held the door open for me and I walked through.