All Sales Fatal (15 page)

A plump fifty-year-old, she wore her own stock: dark
blue velour pants and a matching top that brought out the hints of auburn in her overstyled hair. It looked like the same outfit she’d worn to the self-defense class, but she’d clearly applied makeup since then. Her false-eyelash-fringed eyes grew round at the sight of me. “Officer Ferris. There’s nothing wrong, is there?” She peered around me as if looking for a handcuffed shoplifter or mall maintenance person who was going to break the news about a cockroach infestation or major plumbing snafu.

“No, no,” I reassured her. “Just making the rounds.”

“Oh.” She sighed. “This morning’s class was wonderful. I feel so much safer now.”

“Just don’t get overconfident,” I warned. “How’s it going? Business good?”

“Oh, you know, the economy,” she said vaguely, looking around at the customerless space. “I’m keeping my head above water. Barely.”

“I suppose you heard—”

“About Captain Woskowicz?” She sighed again and tugged at one of the six or seven rings decorating her fingers, sliding it on and off. “Yes. So sad. I’ll be going to the memorial service tomorrow. Janice can open the store for me if it runs long.”

“I’m helping the police with the investigation”—whether they wanted me to or not—“and I noticed that Captain Woskowicz stopped by here a few times recently.”

Her expression froze, her gaze fixed on me. The ring fell to the carpet.

“Can you tell me what he talked about?” I asked. “Was there something on his mind, some issue that he was helping you with? Anything?”

She bent to retrieve the ring. When she straightened, her face was flushed. “Oh! Well, nothing really. He stopped by
on occasion—kind of like you do—to make sure things were okay. I’ve told Mr. Quigley time and again how much I appreciate the security staff at Fernglen.” Her words tumbled together, and she seemed unaccountably flustered. “You do such a good job, and you’re so
attentive
.”

I wrinkled my brow, taken aback by her nervousness. “Thank you,” I said. “We try to keep the mall safe for the merchants and the shoppers.”

“Oh, you
do
,” she said, moving past me to fuss with the chenille sweater and spangly scarf on a mannequin, making it impossible for me to read her face.

“And Captain Woskowicz?”

“He did, too,” she assured me. “He made me feel so safe. Was there anything else? I’m expecting a delivery.” She faced me, blinking rapidly, and began edging backwards.

“I guess not,” I said.

“Well, I’ll see you at the memorial service tomorrow, then,” she said. “Toodles!”

With no other option, I left the store, glancing over my shoulder when I reached the hall. Starla’s face peered at me from behind the curtained doorway but jerked out of sight when she saw me looking.

What in the world was making the woman act so goosey? I didn’t know her well, so maybe her scattered persona was normal. Still… she seemed awfully nervous. I tried to imagine what criminal enterprise Starla could be operating from the boutique that benefited from having the security cameras disabled. Could she have bribed Captain W to sabotage them? Or had he done it of his own accord for some reason? Maybe she was selling drugs to her zaftig and middle-aged clientele. Prozac and OxyContin? Not impossible. Maybe she smuggled in outlawed ivory or accessories made from the skins and pelts of endangered animals. Blood diamonds disguised
as tasteless cocktails rings! I chuckled at the outrageous idea—I couldn’t see Starla negotiating with smugglers—and gave up trying to puzzle it out for the moment.

I wandered to the Make-a-Manatee store where I could see Mike Wachtel straightening stuffed animals in the window display. I waved and he beckoned me in. Walking into Make-a-Manatee made me wish I had kids or nieces and nephews to buy stuffed animals for. Although the store specialized in marine mammals, with a large display of seals, dolphins, walruses, and, of course, manatees at the front of the store, they also had lobsters, starfish, sharks, and other ocean dwellers in fantastical colors. Bins of the unstuffed creatures sat waiting for a child to make a choice and bring the animal to “life” with stuffing, a red plastic heart on which they could write “I love Teddy” or some such, and even a voice box that produced generic squealing noises that could be interpreted as whale song or seal barks. A pink whale large enough to swallow a five-year-old hung suspended over the doorway. The stuffing machine made a hissing noise as it circulated fluff in the large glass enclosure.

“EJ.” Mike came over to greet me, shaking my hand. His gait was awkward with the cast dragging down his left leg. “Thanks for stopping by. What a week, huh?”

“You can say that again.”

“At least the security cameras are working again. But, good God! I was shocked to hear that Dennis had been killed. What are the police doing? Have they made an arrest?”

It was strange to hear Woskowicz referred to as Dennis. “Did you know him well?” I asked. “I notice he stopped by here several times in the last couple weeks.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘well,’” Mike said, scratching his chin. “We chatted occasionally… you know how it is. He bought a shark for his nephew—or maybe his godson?—oh, a
couple years back, and we got to talking. We both did a little home brewing—beer, you know—so we talked about that. We went pub crawling once or twice, but I’ve got a wife and family, and Dennis, well…”

He trailed off with a sheepish smile. I got the impression Woskowicz’s endless quest for dates had made Mike uncomfortable.

“He had a thing for redheads,” Mike said, confirming my hunch.

I was silent for a moment, pondering the image of Woskowicz as a man with a family (besides ex-wives) and hobbies. I couldn’t remember hearing him talk about anything besides guns, sports, and women. A part of me felt guilty, like I should have made more of an effort to get to know him. The practical side of me pointed out that he was my boss and he certainly hadn’t encouraged a friendship; in fact, he went out of his way to insult me and disparage my military experience.

In the quiet, the sound of voices filtered to me from behind a panel at the rear of the store. “Is there someone—?” I nodded toward the back.

Mike laughed. “That’s my TV. I like to keep a game on for when it’s slow like this.”

“NCAA?” Kyra had gone to Duke and would be despondent if they didn’t make the Final Four.

“Basketball, baseball, World Cup—I’m a sports junkie.”

I changed the subject, not wanting to get caught up in a discussion of favorite sports teams. “Did it seem to you that Captain Woskowicz was hanging out in this wing more than usual?” I asked.

Mike pulled his head back slightly. “That’s a strange question,” he said slowly.

I explained about reviewing the camera data.

“He might’ve been here a bit more than usual,” Mike
conceded. “Maybe because the cameras were out? He could’ve felt like he needed to be here to keep an eye on things. He didn’t mention it to me, though.” Stooping, Mike pulled a bottle of window cleaner from a low cabinet and moved past me to spritz the glass door, rubbing at little fingerprints. “So, what are the police thinking? Was it a robbery with Dennis just in the wrong place at the wrong time? I heard it happened at the battlefield park. Strange. Dennis never mentioned being a Civil War buff.” He straightened to watch for my reaction.

“I don’t know if the police have a theory yet,” I said. “They might be around to talk to you and the other merchants.”

“Well, I don’t know what I can tell them,” he said, turning back to the door.
Squee, squee
went the cloth. “Other than it’s a damn shame.”

I left Mike
still cleaning his windows and headed toward Pete’s Sporting Goods, the other store Woskowicz had visited frequently. Before I reached it, though, my cell phone rang and the security office’s number popped up. When I answered, Harold’s voice said, “EJ, you won’t believe who… it’s… you need to get back here right away.”

Puzzled by Harold’s stammering, I turned and walked at a brisk pace back to the security office, wishing I had the Segway when my knee started aching. I paused outside the doors. Standing with their backs to the glass doors were a man and a woman. I suddenly understood Harold’s confusion.

Entering the office, I greeted my mother with pleasure and Ethan with resignation. “EJ!” He swept me into a bear hug.

…

I introduced my
parents to Harold.

“Ethan Jarrett is your father?” Harold asked, eyes wide.

Mom, highlighted blond hair pulled into a low ponytail, and dressed in jeans and a cashmere sweater, could have passed for any well-off suburban housewife on her way to lunch at the country club or a board meeting at her kids’ charter school. Dad was permanently in actor mode when he left the house (and sometimes even at home), and he radiated a charisma that drew all eyes to his pressed jeans, painfully expensive navy blazer and ostrich boots, and designer sunglasses. He was in his fifties but looked fifteen years younger, thanks to the magic of Hollywood plastic surgeons and his weekly spray tans. He flashed his famous smile at Harold.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Wasserman. I don’t know why it’s always a surprise to EJ’s friends when they meet us. It’s like she never mentions us or something.” He shot me a roguish look.

Of course I didn’t mention him. All my life, until I joined the military, I’d been “Ethan Jarrett’s daughter,” befriended by people hoping they could meet my dad or hoping I’d be openhanded with his millions. Now that I finally had a sense of myself and who I wanted to be, I didn’t muddy the waters by talking about my famous father. At all. Kyra knew, because we’d met when we were eleven and Mom, Dad, Clint, and I had come east one summer to visit Grandpa Atherton. She’d visited us in Malibu on numerous occasions throughout our teen years and was one of the few people I knew who seemed genuinely impervious to our lifestyle. Jay Callahan knew because he’d bumped into me and Ethan—Dad had insisted Clint and I call him Ethan from the time we were thirteen—and assumed we were
romantically involved. I had quickly enlightened him. Other than that, I tried to keep it quiet. Which was going to be damned difficult if Ethan insisted on popping into the mall now that they were temporarily living in Alexandria while he filmed his new action-thriller.

Mom gave me a sympathetic smile. “We were hoping you’d have time for lunch with us, dear,” she said, shooting Ethan the “tone it down” look.

“So you can fill us in on the murder. Why do I have to read about your boss being killed in the paper? You never tell us anything,” Ethan complained. “I think it’s time you joined me in my production compa—”

“Sure, let’s lunch,” I said, herding them out of the office as Harold watched with a bemused expression.

“My grandsons love the old
Roll Call
reruns,” he called after us.

I let my
folks drive me home to change before rejoining them in the limo for the half-hour ride to a discreet restaurant in an eighteenth-century inn where no prices appeared on the menus. If you had to ask, you couldn’t afford it. The staff were sufficiently accustomed to the rich and famous not to hover over Ethan. Mom and I talked about Clint’s latest story—he was an investigative journalist currently writing about politics in Venezuela—until Ethan turned the conversation back to Captain Woskowicz’s murder.

“I don’t like it, EJ,” he said, gesturing with a forkful of quail. “Murder is nothing to mess around with.”

“You have more dead bodies in a two-minute scene in one of your movies than a big-city cop sees in a twenty-year career,” I pointed out.

He frowned at me with the piercing blue eyes that stared out from many a movie poster. His forehead didn’t wrinkle,
and I wondered if he’d discovered Botox. “For God’s sake, EJ, that’s the movies. It’s not real.”

I was relieved to hear him say that because I sometimes wondered if he knew the difference. “True,” I murmured, taking a swallow of the lovely Riesling he’d ordered. Wine during the day felt decadent. “Did I tell you I’m applying for the director of security job?”

My mother looked slightly troubled, but before she could comment, Ethan said, “Do you suppose someone is targeting security guards at Fernglen? If it were one of my scripts, it’d be a former employee with a grudge, or maybe an escaped mental—”

“No one’s targeting security guards,” I said, exasperated. “The police are focused on Captain Woskowicz’s private life.” It was standard procedure to suspect a victim’s nearest and dearest, so I was sure I wasn’t way off in fib land with that statement.

“Even so—”

“Did I tell you Grandpa is the Easter Bunny?” I asked, desperate to distract him from my work life.

Mom sputtered wine over her salad. Grandpa Atherton was her dad. “He’s what?”

I explained. Mom shook her head dubiously. “It sounds harmless enough.” Doubt born of fifty-plus years’ experience sounded in her voice.

“His activities always do,” Ethan pointed out, “until something blows up or he lands in the ER with a couple broken bones or the police pick him up.”

“Dad hasn’t been arrested in at least two years,” Mom said with the air of someone trying to be fair.

“Then he’s about due.”

While Ethan gave the server explicit directions for preparing his after-meal espresso, I rose to visit the ladies’
room, and Mom surprised me by rising, too, saying, “Excuse us, Ethan.”

The restroom evoked a previous century with gilt-edged mirrors and paintings, two spindly legged chairs upholstered in a cream and gold striped damask, a small chandelier dangling crystals just above our heads, and sconces with bulbs made to look like candles. As Mom and I washed our hands, her gaze met mine in the mirror. “How much thought have you given this director of security job, EJ?” Worry put a slight pucker between her brows.

“It’s only until I land a real police job.”

Holding her hands under the automatic dryer, Mom spoke louder to be heard over its roar. “If you get too comfortable at Fernglen, you won’t want to leave. Every day that goes by makes it harder to break free of the comfortable routine, the rut.”