Murder in Store Read Free Page B

first was from Millicent Wagner, the woman who was coordinating the gem show at Hauser’s. She’d be out the rest of the morning and would call me in the afternoon. Another was from a security-system company, probably selling the foolproof, burglar-proof alarm.
    And the third message. Ah yes, I thought. This one I half expected. I studied the two words. “Call Maggie.” I knew what she wanted and it wasn’t to have my suits returned to
    my foot-and-a-half of her tiny closet. Maggie hated to hurt things, but not enough to change her abrupt and straight-forward manner. She probably realized that she had played fast and loose with my feelings.
    I recalled one Saturday afternoon a month or so ago when Maggie and I stopped at O’Banyon’s Pub with a small group of friends for a few beers and some salted peanuts in the shell. Maggie and a third-year student got into a heated debate over some legal point, and she verbally ground her opponent to mincemeat. Maggie was unflinching and irrepressible in her arguments. The other woman was totally outclassed. Later, Maggie felt so lousy about the trouncing that she couldn’t sleep. Finally she called the woman at three a.m., apologizing and extracting forgiveness from her.
    Maggie’s friends are used to this and put up with it the same way you put up with the eccentricities of a favorite aunt. It’s almost part of her charm. I was used to her ways too, but I wasn’t ready to absolve her, not while still nursing a hangover. I tossed the message, crumpled, into the wastebasket.
    I leaned back in my chair, propped my feet on the desk, and allowed myself a moment to bask in a glow of well-being. This must be how a junkie feels when he tosses the needle down the sewer grid. Then the sound of the telephone dragged me back to reality. Hauser’s had one of those new phone systems—they don’t ring, they warble. I answered it.
    “Mr. McCauley, this is Irna Meyers. Mr. Hauser would like to meet with you today to discuss the security plans for the gem show. Is ten o’clock convenient?”
    I pictured Hauser; I pictured Diana; I hesitated for a moment, digesting the message. I said, “Ah, let’s see,” and hoped she would interpret the hesitation as the sound of a man trying to squeeze the boss into his already crowded
    schedule. “Ten o’clock? Yes, that will be all right.”
    “Would another time be more convenient?” She worded it as a question, but the tone of her voice said there was only one answer.
    “No. No. Ten o’clock is fine. I’ll be there.” I hung up the phone and loosened my tie.
    Well, I allowed myself, she did catch me off guard. Panic was not an abnormal reaction, given the situation. Preston Hauser had never consulted with me about security plans or for any other reason. Hauser made little pretense about the fact that he was a figurehead for his store, preferring to let Griffin run the operation. Hauser was there for ribbon-cutting ceremonies and to lend his famous and respected name to various foundations and benefits. He made perfunctory appearances and staffed a secretary, but that was the extent of his involvement in the store his grandfather and father had established. Prior to the incident involving Diana Hauser, I had not received more than a nod of recognition from the man. And now he wanted to consult with me on security. “Fat chance,” I said.
    Hauser’s secretary stood guard over the door to his office like a dragon protects its cave filled with bones and treasure. Irna Meyers motioned me into a chair and finished typing a letter. Then she walked over to Hauser’s office door. “Wait here,” she said to me before entering.
    Irna Meyers was the sort of secretary a jealous wife might choose for her husband. Mid sixties, tall, stout, and buxom, she could have passed as one of Wagner’s Valkyries. Or maybe Mrs. Nagel, my sixth-grade principal.
    Irna reappeared. “Mr. Hauser will see you now.” She held the door open for me and watched my