Accessory to Murder (2 page)

That was the other thing Josie hated about her married friends. The women quoted their husbands as if they didn't have a thought in their heads. Yet Josie knew Alyce had put Jake through law school.

“Jake says—”

“Hey! You! Stop!”

Josie saw one of the tough teenagers racing down the marble concourse, clutching something in his huge hands. The security guard made a flying tackle and brought the kid down hard. They rolled on the floor, while another guard jumped on top of the young man. A third yelled, “Call 911.”

“Those security guards are good,” Alyce said.

“They're stupid,” Josie said. “Subduing a suspect like that is the best way to get slapped with a lawsuit. The kid's bleeding. The guards used excessive force. What did he take, anyway?”

“A biography of Donald Rumsfeld,” Alyce said. “Why would he steal a book when he could get it free at the library?”

“He isn't going to read it,” Josie said. “He's going to take it to another store in the chain and try to get a refund. If he can't get cash, he'll use the store credit to buy a CD. Where are his friends?”

“I don't see them anywhere,” Alyce said. “I guess they took off.”

“Unless he was supposed to create a diversion for the real action,” Josie said. She heard a popping sound.

“Is that a car backfiring inside the mall?” Alyce said.

“It's a gunshot,” Josie said, and pushed Alyce down under the bench. Two young men with short dreads were running for the stairs.

“Help me!” A young woman with wide dark eyes, four eyebrow rings, and spiky pink hair staggered out of the athletic-shoe store three doors away. Her face was bleached with shock. She could talk only in short gasps. “Two men. With dreads. They've got a gun. They held up our store.”

Six shoppers with cell phones simultaneously punched in 911.

Josie ran to the young woman's side. Her name tag said
COURTNEY
.

“Are you OK, Courtney?”

“I'm fine,” she said—but her teeth were chattering. Josie picked a sweatshirt off a display rack and wrapped it around her. Josie saw blue smoke and smelled cordite. “What happened? Did they try to shoot you?”

“They shot the cash register. Two guys in Crips clothes came in.” Courtney stopped to catch her breath. “The tall one had a Glock 9. It looked like the ones on TV. He said he'd shoot me if I didn't open the cash register. My hands were shaking so bad, I couldn't hit the keys. He pushed me aside and blasted the register. He scooped up four hundred dollars. His friend grabbed three pairs of athletic shoes. They got away with a thousand dollars altogether.”

“But you're not hurt,” Josie said.

“No,” Courtney said. “Except my ears are ringing. Shit. I don't want to cry.”

Josie gave her a handful of tissues, and she dabbed angrily at her face, smearing her dark eye makeup. “I've never had a gun pointed at me before.”

Alyce poured a cup of coffee at the courtesy counter. It was black as old motor oil. Courtney took a sip and made a face, but she drank it.

“I can't believe they'd hold up a mall shop in broad daylight,” Alyce said.

“It's that freaking gangsta store,” Courtney said. “I don't care if the manager did give me a raise. It's not worth it. Today's my last day.” She tore off her name tag and threw it on the counter.

Mall security and uniformed cops rushed through the store door. Josie and Alyce faded out the side entrance. They hadn't seen the holdup and didn't want to be questioned by the police.

“I need some coffee,” Alyce said. “Let's go downstairs.”

They stopped at a kiosk for double lattes, then plopped down on the wrought-iron chairs in the mall's indoor garden. A pink froth of flowers poured from terra-cotta pots. Sunlight streamed through the skylights in shimmering shafts. The fountain's soft patter soothed them.

“This is such a beautiful mall,” Alyce said. “It's a shame I'll never come back.”

“Why? Because you saw two thefts? That goes on at every mall in America.”

“Not where I shop,” Alyce said.

“Yes it does,” Josie said. “One million Americans shoplift every day. They boost roughly twenty thousand dollars a minute. I know the gangsta kids looked scary, but what really happened? A white woman stole a thousand dollars and so did some black kids.”

“No, you can't explain it away, Josie,” Alyce said. “An old woman who shoplifts a scarf and an armed robbery are not the same. That holdup was frightening. Maybe I'm sheltered, but I like my life. I'll never come back here again, not even for you.”

Josie shrugged. “OK, if that's how you feel.”

“I do. My suburban neighbors can be crooks, but we don't shoot people in malls.”

“You just hold them up on paper,” Josie said.

“That isn't funny,” Alyce said.

It wasn't. Soon, more gunshots would shatter their lives. Nothing would ever be the same for Alyce and Josie.

Josie could find her way blindfolded to the food court at any mall in America, but she was lost in a kitchen.

Alyce was a culinary artist. After a stressful morning at the Dorchester Mall, she'd retreated to her kitchen. Every woman fought fear in her own way. Alyce subdued hers with a spatula. She'd cooked all weekend. Alyce was in the kitchen when Josie stopped at noon Monday to see if her friend had recovered.

Josie's kitchen looked like the “before” photo in a home-improvement magazine. Alyce's was the triumphant “after.” At the palatial Estates at Wood Winds in far West County, kitchens did not have porcelain sinks and Formica counters. Alyce's kitchen was paneled in linenfold oak, like an English library. The fridge was so thoroughly disguised Josie couldn't find it. Somebody should have stuck
WESTINGHOUSE
on the paneling to give her a hint. Josie couldn't even figure out Alyce's toaster. It looked like something launched by NASA.

Alyce was a flurry of movement at her black granite island, chopping, whipping, and whisking with arcane kitchenware. Josie watched, fascinated. She had no idea what half those tools were. They looked like they belonged in a dungeon.

“I thought I'd fix us a little brunch before the plumber arrives,” Alyce said. “Would you like an artichoke-and-leek frittata?”

“If you make it, I'll like it,” Josie said. She took a seat at the granite island, on the lee side of the slicers and dicers. “Why are we waiting for the plumber? Is your toilet stopped up?”

“No, I need a pot filler,” Alyce said.

“What's that?” Josie said.

“I'm having a tap installed over the stove to fill my big cooking pots. That way I won't have to haul them across the kitchen.”

“You're joking,” Josie said.

“I am not. Everyone has one.”

“Not in Maplewood,” Josie said. “We city women are made of sturdy stock. We cross vast kitchens carrying pots full of water.”

“Slopping it everywhere,” Alyce said.

“Of course. How else would I clean my kitchen floor? What's in this martini? It's red.”

“It's a cranberry martini,” Alyce said. “It's good for you. Something's worrying you, Josie. I mean, besides that awful business at the Dorchester Mall.”

“That didn't bother me,” Josie said. “Theft is a fact of life at the malls. But I admit, the armed robbery was a little extreme.”

Josie lived in an old suburb on the edge of St. Louis. It was safe by Josie's standards, but Maplewood had its share of crime. Still, she preferred her town's eclectic jumble to the lockstep perfection of Alyce's safer subdivision.

“It's no joke, Josie. Those men pulled a gun on an innocent store clerk. Maybe you're used to that, but I'm not.” Alyce was furiously cracking eggs into a bowl two at a time.

“I owe you an apology,” Josie said. “I did some research. On Friday, we saw the Dorchester Mall die. That holdup was the beginning of the end. It's happened at other malls: They rent to a store that brings in the wrong clientele. Shoplifting, purse snatchings, and other crimes go up. The advertisers put pressure on the local papers to downplay the crime. That works for a while. Then something too big to cover up happens and the situation explodes.”

Alyce broke another pair of eggs.

“How do you do that?” Josie said. “Not a single piece of shell. My eggs would come out extra crunchy.”

“Thank you,” Alyce said.

“For the eggs?” Josie asked.

“For taking me seriously about the Dorchester Mall. For not making me feel like a sheltered housewife. But you still haven't answered my question. What's worrying you?”

“My mom. She's taken up smoking.”

“Why?”

“Peer pressure,” Josie said.

Alyce laughed. “Your mom is what? Sixty-five?”

“Sixty-eight,” Josie said. “Jane gave up smoking after my father walked out on us, because she couldn't afford cigarettes. She needed every penny to raise me. Now that she's retired, she has a little spending money. Her friends all smoke, so she started again. She says she's not worried about cancer—she's too old to care.”

“She has a point, Josie,” Alyce said. “It's her life.”

“It's a bad example for Amelia,” Josie said. “Nine is a dangerous age. Some of the kids at her school are starting to smoke. She doesn't need to see her grandmother puffing away. Her school has zero tolerance for smoking. She could lose her scholarship and be expelled. She—”

Josie stopped in midsentence and stared at Alyce. Her friend was packing curly greens into what looked like a fertilizer spreader. “What are you doing with that miniature farm equipment? The doohickey with the crank?”

“It's an herb mill,” Alyce said, as if that explained it.

Josie guessed everyone had one of those, too. She wouldn't embarrass herself with more questions. “Here's the other problem with Mom smoking: She stinks.”

“Josie!”

“I can't stand to be in her home. I'm there five minutes and I reek of cigarette smoke. It's in her carpets and her curtains. I have to wash my hair every time I see her. She lives upstairs, don't forget. The smoke seems to seep into everything in her flat. I've told her I hate it, but she waves away my protests like I don't count.”

“What's the big deal?” Alyce was tearing the leaves off the baby artichokes and throwing them away. Alyce tossed everything but a thimble-sized hunk of the heart. Josie thought it was a lot of work when she could buy nice big artichoke hearts in a jar for two bucks.

“It's her home,” Alyce said, eviscerating another tiny artichoke. “If your mom reeks of smoke, she'll gross out Amelia. You won't have to worry about your daughter picking up a bad habit.”

“Mom smokes in my home, too.”

“Tell her no,” Alyce said. “It's your right to ban smoking there.” She dropped the infant artichokes into boiling water.

“That's the problem when your mother is also your landlord and your babysitter,” Josie said. “She smokes while she watches Amelia in our flat. Mom swears she doesn't, but she sneaks cigarettes. I can smell them the moment I unlock the door. She opens the windows, so the place is stinky and freezing cold, and I'm paying to heat the outdoors.”

“Sounds like what you used to do at school. Didn't you sneak ciggies in the girls' bathroom and blow the smoke out the window?”

Alyce dropped the boiled artichokes into a bowl of ice water. Josie wondered if the little things were confused.

“How did you know?” Josie asked. “We didn't go to school together.”

“I know you, Josie. I bet you smoked to rebel. Maybe your mom is doing the same thing. The more you make a big deal out of it, the more she'll light up. Let her go. It's a phase. Why did you quit smoking?”

Alyce patted the tortured artichokes dry with a towel, as if she'd just given them a bath.

“I discovered boys,” Josie said. “I wanted more money to spend on clothes and makeup, so I quit the cigarettes. Ohmigod. What if Mom got a serious boyfriend? I mean, besides her bingo buddy, Jimmy Ryent. He's harmless.”

“See, it could be a lot worse,” Alyce said. “Men are a much harder habit to break than cigarettes. More expensive, too. My friend Liz's mother spent a fortune on a face-lift, and that got her a man who cleaned out her bank account. Now all Liz will inherit is a mountain of debt.” Alyce plugged an odd-shaped metal device into a lemon.

“What are you doing to that innocent lemon?” Josie said.

“It's a citrus trumpet,” Alyce said. “It's the most efficient way to extract juice from lemons and limes. Just plug this in and squeeze, and the juice comes down the funnel spout. No waste. No seeds.”

“It looks cruel,” Josie said.

The discussion on citrus abuse was interrupted by the doorbell.

“That's the plumber,” Alyce said, and jumped up to open the side door.

There was quite a package on her kitchen doorstep. Josie took in the long legs, the tight jeans, and the soft blue denim shirt with the logo
MIKE'S DOGTOWN PLUMBERS
. The plumber's eyes were a clear gray-blue. The jaw was firm and square. Short brownish hair,
Miami Vice
stubble. Very nice, she thought.

“I'm Mike. I'm here for your plumbing,” he said, and turned bright red. “I mean, you wanted a pot filler, ma'am?”

He looked at Josie and Alyce, not sure who to address. Josie bit her lip, trying not to giggle.

“Yes,” Alyce said. Her pale complexion was pinker than usual. She patted the wall over the stove. “I want it here, if you can get to my pipes. I mean, my water pipes.”

Josie snorted and tried to turn it into a cough.

Mike looked ready to bolt for the door. “Pipes. Right. I'm sure you have good lines. I'll get my stuff in the truck and be back.” He disappeared again.

“He can get to my pipes,” Josie whispered. “I may need a pot filler after all.”

“Quiet,” Alyce hissed. She was rosy with embarrassment.

Mike returned with a gray toolbox and a wary expression.

“We're having a frittata,” Alyce said. “Would you like a piece?”

Josie choked. Alyce kicked her.

“No thanks,” Mike said. “I had lunch already. A Big Mac.” He looked around the kitchen. “I guess you don't go to McDonald's.”

“I do,” Josie said. “I love the special sauce. I could coat my whole body with it.” Where did that come from?

Mike's eyebrows shot up.

“As a beauty aid,” Josie added. “Not to eat.”

Alyce had such a bad coughing fit that Josie had to pound her on the back. Mike tried to get her a glass of water, but he couldn't find the cabinet with the glasses in the acres of unmarked oak. By the time Alyce finished choking, Josie's ridiculous remark was forgotten.

“Can I get you any coffee? Soda? Bottled water?” Alyce said. She took a step toward the stove and Mike backed toward the door. What was going on here? Why would two housewives scare a plumber? And why did they sound like a bad porn movie?

“No, I'm fine,” Mike said. “Really. I just want to work.”

“Then we'll let you do that,” Alyce said brightly. “As soon as I get my buns out of the oven.”

“Good,” he said. “I mean, thanks.”

Alyce might be rattled, but she was still a perfect hostess. She cut the frittata in two and put each half on a plate with a generous helping of salad. Then she carried the plates into the sunny breakfast room. Josie studied her friend's odd gliding walk. Alyce seemed to float above the floor, and Josie could never figure out how she did that.

“How can I help?” Josie said.

“You can sit down and enjoy the view,” Alyce said. She was too polite to say Josie would only be in her way.

Josie sat. The sunny bay window overlooked the garden, planted for early December with ornamental cabbages. The table had yellow linen napkins and matching sweetheart roses in a cut-glass vase.

Alyce put a pot of coffee on the warmer and brought in the pitcher of leftover cranberry martinis, a basket of warm rolls, and butter curls. Then she came back with the kitchen-counter TV. Alyce never watched television during meals. Josie suspected she wanted to provide cover for their conversation. Alyce turned the TV on low, and they talked in half whispers.

“What's wrong with me?” Josie said. “I've never sounded so stupid.”

“We have
Desperate Housewives
syndrome,” Alyce said. “Ever since that TV show, any halfway-cute handyman gets hit on. It's especially difficult for plumbers, and this one is hot. These men are running scared. They're used to initiating the sex, not having women come on to them.”

“He's cute, but I can't believe I said those things,” Josie said. “I'm so embarrassed.”

“You couldn't help yourself. You fell into the Susan role, the klutzy single one. I expected you to trip over a chair any moment. That blasted show has ruined our handymen. It used to be a woman could have a little fling with a repairman and it was no big deal. I didn't indulge, but some of my friends did. Now these guys have become sex objects. They're like rock stars, except they're useful. Women find them irresistible.”

“No wonder he's scared. Should I—”

But Alyce was staring at the TV screen. It had a red
Breaking News
banner across the bottom. She grabbed the clicker and turned the sound up. The announcer was saying, “The West County woman was shot and killed in an apparent attempted carjacking at the Dorchester Mall. Witnesses said a seventeen-year-old African-American male was the shooter. Police chased the suspect in the mall, where he was apprehended and taken into custody.

“The dead woman was identified as Halley Hardwicke, thirty, a designer—”

Alyce's fork clattered onto her plate. “That's my neighbor,” she said. “Halley's dead.”