DeathGoesShopping
A Jenny Turnbull Mystery
Jessica Burton
Text © 2002 Jessica Burton
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.
Cover art by Christopher Chuckry www.chuckry.com
We gratefully acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program.
Napoleon Publishing/RendezVous Press
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
05 04 03 02 5 4 3 2 1
National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Burton, Jessica—
Death Goes Shopping / Jessica Burton
“A Jenny Turnbull mystery”.
ISBN 0-929141-95-4
I. Title.
PS8553.U696243D42 2002 C813'.6 C2002-902961-9
PR9199.4.B87S42 2002
For my motherMarion McFarlane Burton
Acknowledgements
Heartfelt thanks are owed to Roger, Helen, Debbie, Keith, Jackie, Susan, Big Red and all the kids for always believing…
…and also to Bruce and Kal Pattison, Betts and Herbert Engell and Susan Williamson for their unconditional support and encouragement, to Margaret Hart and Joe Kertes of the Humber School for Writers for their best efforts and for never giving up and…
…a special thank you to Eric Wright for cheering me on despite the commas and another one to Jen for her spaghetti sauce.
I am also indebted to my publisher Sylvia McConnell and the Notorious Crime Family for gathering me up with open arms and to editor Allister Thompson for his patient work in bettering my manuscript.
One
When the shoe hit my desk, I was head down and counting elves, so I just reached out and tried to sweep it off.
As promotion director for a large shopping centre, odd items turn up in my office all the time, so unless they're immediately needed, I don't pay much attention. Right now I needed an elf, not a big black shoe.
The shoe didn't budge.
It didn't budge because it landed complete with a foot.
I looked up and saw the foot was at the end of a leg which its owner had lifted onto my desk. He was a huge man whose dark gray suit, white shirt and Paisley tie were topped with two chins and a scowling face. Hands splayed on the wall behind him, he was trying to balance on his one operating leg. Dark eyes, narrowed behind a pair of gold-rimmed bifocals, looked me over carefully and locked on my face.
“Is there something I can do for you?” I hit the phone intercom button that was linked to mall Security. “The administration office isn't really open on Saturdays, you know.”
No answer.
I repeated my question and hit the intercom again. I could see this guy was really agitated, and I was alone. In a shopping centre this big, you get all kinds, and it pays to be cautious.
Rosewood Centre is a two-level building shaped like a straightened Z. The main entrance doors, in the middle of the mall, face east. The top and bottom of the zee are major department stores, both with two floors and, of course, their own outside doors as well as entrances onto the mall area. They're connected by a main concourse lined on both sides with ancillary stores, banks and service outlets. Our mall management offices are at the end of a back hallway on the shopping centre's upper level. They're deliberately hard to find in order to discourage drop-in visits from both tenants and customers. Seems the plan wasn't working today.
“I've been looking for you,” he said.
He wobbled about a bit, gave up and half-fell, half-sat in the chair on the other side of the desk. His foot stayed where it was.
If I hadn't been so distracted because of the screw-up in my pumpkin delivery, I'd have remembered to lock the outer door. The administration suite has four interior offices and a small kitchen linked by a short hall leading from the fair-sized reception area. My office is on the left as you come in the outer door and turn down the hall. But I hadn't locked the door, and now here I was, facing God knows what, with his shoe on my desk.
“You are the Customer Complaints woman, I take it?” His voice was tight and precise, like his face. “I was told downstairs you'd be up here.”
“I'm Jenny Turnbull, the Promotion Director. But I also handle any concerns that customers may have about Rosewood City Centre,” I said. “If I can ask again, who are you, and why is your foot on my desk?”
“God give me strength.” He looked at the ceiling. “Another bloody Scot.”
I felt around under the kneehole opening in the desk with my foot, trying to find my knitting bag and nudge it to where I could grab a knitting needle in a hurry.
“I'm a customer, that's who. I'm the man who pays your wages, that's who. And I'm the reason you've got a job, that's who.”
He tried emphasizing his words by stabbing a finger on the desk but kept missing, because his outstretched leg and a fair-sized paunch kept him from leaning forward. He used the arm of the chair instead. His face was red with effort, but he was determined. That shoe wasn't coming off the desk until he'd had his say.
“I'm Dick…”
Well, that fits, I thought. But if he says Tracy, I'm going for the needle.
“…Simmons, and you just bet, Miss, that I have a concern.” His voice lost some of its control. It's pretty hard to be precise with one leg stuck up higher than your belly. “As a matter of fact, it's more than a concern, it's a goddam complaint. And a goddam justified complaint at that.”
I raised my eyebrows. He inched his backside forward. The shoe slid closer. The only thing missing was a drum roll.
“Look at that shoe. Just look at it. Now, I ask you.”
I looked. Black and highly polished with the number twelve stamped on the sole, it looked about right to me.
“Just what are you asking me, Dick? What am I looking for?”
“Well, any fool could see that,” he said. “Look at the repair. Or what's supposed to be a bloody repair. Two hundred dollar Italian shoes ruined. Ruined.” He shook his head. “My wife took them in for new soles, and that asshole countryman of yours in that fancy-dancy shoe repair downstairs ruined them. Stupid sonofabitch.”
His precision was totally gone now. He sucked in a huge mouthful of air and slid forward a bit more. His tie slid off to one side, showing a few black hairs in the gap where the fronts of his shirt pulled between the buttons.
“And what's more, when I took the fucking shoes back, the bastard threw me out. Said there was nothing wrong with them. Now, you own this poor excuse of a mall, and I'm asking you, what're you going to do about it?”
Stab, stab went the finger. My father used to do that when I was a kid. I hated it then, and I still hate it. I have a finger too.