Murder in Store Read Free

curative powers of a good bottle of scotch. It didn’t exactly purge the melancholy, but it gave me another kind of suffering I could dwell on. I could deal with a hangover, but I wasn’t sure how to handle losing Maggie.
    Facing myself in the mirror wasn’t easy either. The bloodshot eyes didn’t make me look any younger. Gray had been creeping into my hair for some time, and now I noticed that my mustache was starting to turn on me as well. I couldn’t do anything with the hair on my head, but I could show the mustache that I wasn’t going to stand for it. Before I could change my mind, I slapped on some shaving cream and got rid of the thing.
    I was immediately sorry. Not only did my face look funny now, but that mustache had been with me a hell of a lot longer than Maggie. Shaving off a twenty-year companion deserves more thought than you give to clipping your nails. My melancholy and sense of loss merged with irritation when I realized that Maggie hadn’t packed my ties and I was reduced to wearing the brown striped one I’d worn the day before with a blue tattersall shirt. Now I looked like I felt.
    Nonetheless, on the way to work, I stopped for breakfast at a fast-food place and, by the time I walked out of the cold, crisp January morning and into Hauser’s I felt almost human. Early morning at the store was always a good time of the day for me, like standing on the stage in a theater, before the curtain goes up. The crew rushes to get the furniture and props in place as the cast comes on stage, adjusting a costume or giving a final bit of polish to that troublesome line, and I was in on the magic that makes it all work.
    Jefferson Potts, the senior security guard, held the door for me. That was his function prior to store opening: he made sure that no customers happened to stroll in with the employees. He wore the Hauser green uniform as if it ranked him a rear admiral, politely joked with the clerks, and didn’t miss a thing.
    “Rough night last night, Mr. McCauley?” He winked. “Looks like you slipped shavin’ too.”
    I shook my head and said, “Self-inflicted pain is the worst kind.”
    “Yea, well just think how good you’ll feel tomorrow.” “If I survive.”
    When you first walk into Hauser’s, your senses are attacked from all angles, struck by the apparent enormity of the place—apparent because what you see is partly illusion. The main floor is one huge room with dark, polished hardwood floors, massive pillars, and glass display cases grouped to give an uncluttered appearance. If you stand in the middle of this room and look up, you can see straight to the ceiling five stories above. Each floor is a balcony surrounding and overlooking the main floor, enclosed in dark wood banisters and railings. A combination of the old and new pulls it all together.
    The store was built in 1883 to the specifications of Fritz Hauser, Preston’s grandfather. And about all that had
    changed since then was the merchandise and the plumbing. The smell of polish and hardwood still mingled with the scents of women’s perfumes.
    The clerks were carefully screened and selected—no gum snapping, bored-to-tears high school students languishing behind the counters here. One needed experience, poise, and a whole lot of tact to get and keep a sales job at Hauser’s.
    After slapping on a little of the men’s after-shave from a display, I headed for the elevators and my office on the third floor. Halfway there I changed my mind and turned toward the accessories section. Pam Richards was folding cashmere scarves and arranging them in an antique glass display case. She didn’t see me approach and I nearly took that opportunity to retreat. We hadn’t talked very much in the last few months, but we shared some nice memories and I didn’t think there were any hard feelings. Pam wasn’t the kind of woman to keep herself out of circulation for long. For all I knew, she was involved with someone now. One thing I did