Chopping Spree

First I studied the slightly tattered envelope. My name was scrawled above a typed address:Lucas Holden

General Delivery

Prescott, Arizona 86301-9999

The envelope also bore a post-office-stamped pointy finger. I’d always thought those inked pointed forefingers looked vaguely accusatory. The reason given for the return, Addressee Unknown/Return to Sender, included a penned date-of-rejection, from a month before. The return address was the Westside Mall office. Inside I found Lucas Holden’s paycheck, five thousand and change, plus a handwritten note:Lucas, here’s your last check. I sent it to the place you said you were going. Please come back. I know we can work things out.

B. Dean

I put the letter on top of the toilet paper dispenser. So, I figured, that was at least one thing Barry had wanted me to figure out: what had happened to Lucas. Maybe Barry hadn’t been sure; maybe he thought Lucas was on the road, or just plain sulking. But I had found out what had happened to Lucas, hadn’t I? The ex-construction worker had died in a motel. Being extra cautious, though, why would Barry not have called the cops and reported Lucas as a missing person?

I knew the answer as soon as my mind posed the question. Barry’s own words—Nothing clears a mall like a security threat—would surely have applied to a construction manager who’d quit in a huff and then turned up missing. So Barry wanted me, the amateur sleuth, to locate Lucas, because he couldn’t afford any bad publicity. No doubt, the charming Mr. Dean couldn’t have imagined the way I would find Lucas, any more than he would imagine the way I would stumble over his own corpse.

Unfortunately, the other items in the manila envelope were much more baffling. First was a clipped editorial from the February twenty-sixth issue of the Mountain Journal. The title, Does Furman County Really Need Forty More Stores?, was hysterically answered in the first paragraph: No way. But if Barry had been truly interested in my keeping this editorial, why had he clipped it off mid-point? The page’s other side was a pastiche of ads, and included an ‘81 Mercedes At a Great Price, a lot out by the Elk Preserve where the owner would Build to Suit, a sale on delivered topsoil from We Got Dirt, and a heartfelt ad for homemade dog biscuits from Caring for Canines, which implied that if you really loved your pet, you wouldn’t feed him those nasty treats from the grocery store.

Frowning, I reread the editorial that was missing part of its text. It was the standard stuff about the mall addition ruining the environment, encouraging big corporations to usurp state jobs, funneling profits out of state, and, horrors, contributing to the mindless growth of materialism! Maybe it was to avoid this kind of rap that Westside had offered their mall for shopaholics’ meetings. But why would Barry want me to have a slice of Mountain Journal polemic?

The second clipping was another cropped article, this one entitled Teen Held in Shopliftings. Of course I knew all about Teddy Fury, so I skimmed it. But I still puzzled over this clipping, because again Barry had trimmed a portion of the text, this time vertically. Had he had eye problems? The back of this sheet held more ads similar to the others. I sighed. The more evidence I collected regarding Barry’s murder, the more bewildering things became.

The last three items, the fancy cosmetics boxes, were indeed all makeup. First I opened the slender rectangular box and pulled out a pale green, marbleized plastic compact, a cream foundation designated as Honeycream. I opened it; the compact looked as if it had been slightly used. Yuck. The next box held new red lipstick; the third was a roll-up cream blush. I checked all three for secret compartments, tiny written messages, you name it. There was nothing. No question about it—this made a lot of sense, as in none. I went back to the compact mirror, where my exhausted face squinted back. Barry wasn’t the only one who had thought I needed a new look.

I stuffed all the items back in the envelope, which I slid deep into my tote. Tom would have some ideas, I reasoned. He might even know what a dog file was.

I was confused. I was tired. So, I was not in the best of moods when I plodded into the luxurious lingerie department of Prince & Grogan. Pam was there, holding up a lacy teddy, and shaking it from side to side, while a potential customer, a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman with silver hair, gaped. I edged over and heard her croon, “Incredibly slinky and soft against the skin,” and “Oh, you’ll thank me! And so will she!” and “This one’s our top seller. The highest quality, of course. You have to spend money to get the best, but you know that.”

I eased over to a table of reduced flannel pajamas and surreptitiously watched Pam go through her routine. She was good. “Don’t you want something for that special weekend?” “Oh, she deserves it! You deserve it!” “We can’t keep these in stock!” Pam was like a drug dealer for the heroin of shopping. Unlikely she’d ever be a guest speaker at Shopaholics Anonymous.

As Silver Hair smiled and piled items up by the cash register—black lace teddy, pink transparent nightgown, two-piece (very small pieces) nightwear, red satin bustier, feathery mules, push-up bra—he seemed to take on a glow. He told Pam jokes. Her little laugh tinkled. He tilted his silver head close to hers.

Several times, Pam announced, “Then there’s one more thing you must buy! She is soooo lucky to have you.”

Silver Hair beamed some more. This man was in a shopping zone. Since I’d first spotted him, he looked taller, more powerful, even happier. Which I suppose was the whole point… while it lasted.

When he finally whipped out his credit card, I held my breath. Pam’s demure voice said eight hundred and something dollars. Where was that security guard with the smelling salts? The silver-haired man beamed and said that would be fine.

“Oh, it’s you,” Pam said flatly when I appeared at the counter after Silver Hair had swept away triumphantly with his purchases.

“You promised you’d talk to me,” I reminded her firmly.

“Yeah, yeah.” She glanced around her department, probably to see if there was anyone more important than Goldy the caterer, which meant anyone who was willing to splurge on lingerie. “OK, make it fast,” she said impatiently. “Thursday is a big noontime shopping period for us, because businessmen usually have lunch with their mistresses on Fridays. Did you know that that’s why Fridays are the worst day to get a table at a romantic restaurant? The guys just can’t stand the prospect of spending the weekend with their wives, and they want to reassure their girlfriends that they really care. So they buy them a sexy present for that special pre-weekend lunch.”

“And then have sex in the car afterward? Sort of like dessert?”

Her glare was withering. I smiled innocently. “Sorry. You just hear all kinds of stuff in the catering business. I serve Friday lunches, you know. I’m always wondering what the big rush is to get out.”

“Maybe it’s your food.” She grinned, sending the blond ponytails trembling.

I ignored that. “Pam, I just want to talk to you for a few minutes. Can’t I take you to lunch?”

“I told you. I can’t go to lunch because it’s our busy time.”

“I’ll buy something.” I gestured at the silken heaps around us.

“Yeah, right. I saw you pawing through the sale flannels.”

“Sell me a bathrobe, then.”

Her face brightened. “Lace or sheer?”

“Er, terry cloth.”

“I knew it!” she said, her voice scathing.

She wiggled over to a rack of sherbet-colored terry robes that I thought looked quite cozy. Then she lifted an assessing eyebrow at my short, pudgy self, moved away from the small-size robes, and pulled out three medium- size ones. I put on the first, a pale green with satin edging, and assessed myself in a mirrored column. I looked like a half-eaten lime Popsicle.

“Pam, a friend of mine has been accused of killing Barry Dean. I don’t think he did it. You seemed to be