“I slept,” I said. “In fact, I slept like a baby, didn't toss once, didn't turn once. I feel great.” I stood up and bounced around a little to prove it. “I tell you, Helen, you've got to get a hot water bottle. Does the trick every time.”
“Why're your shoes on? It's hardly time to be leaving yet, or have I missed something here? And don't tell me George phoned already,” she said. “I know from experience that he won't be up yet, unless he worked all night.”
“No, I haven't heard anything. I just thought, seeing as I feel so feisty, that I'd start jogging with you today, and then we'll go on over to work and give George a hand solving these murders. I mean, how hard can it be? And you've been after me for a while to get exercising, so I figured this morning's the time.”
“Well, you figured wrong, cowboy.”
She went over to the coffee maker, plugged it in and started doing whatever it is you do with those things to make a pot of joy juice. Being a tea drinker myself, I've never even tried to figure out how it works. Even serving my guests instant coffee seems more civilized than trying to deal with something that spits and hisses.
She walked to the table, mug in hand, and dragged a chair over to prop up her feet. There was a band-aid on each heel.
“I'm not going jogging today. I'm too tired, my feet hurt and I'm too upset and, if that's not enough for you, I just don't feel like it. So put that in your smike and pope it, I mean your poke and smipe it. Oh, shit, you know what I mean.”
She drained her mug and got up to pour a refill.
“Besides, you just can't rush out and jog three miles, Jenny. These things have to be worked up to. First, you do warm-ups, and I don't mean with a hot water bottle. Then you walk a bit, you jog a bit and then you walk a bit more. Then you have a cooling down period. It's not a case of simply charging out the door and up the road, you know. There's an art to jogging, and I'm not in the mood to show you today, so just forget it.”
“Okay,” I said.
On a driving trip through Texas last year, I'd noticed the highway signs read “Don't Mess With Texas.” Dealing with Helen in the morning is often like that, so I just picked up my knitting and went through to the front room to wait for George's phone call.
When the phone rang, it wasn't George but a desk sergeant telling me to meet Inspector Anderson at eight o'clock at the west entrance of the shopping center.
I got there a few minutes before the appointed time and drove around the parking lot to scope it out. There were a couple of police cars at the main entrances, and I saw two media vans, but not much else was going on. It just looked like a typical Sunday morning, mostly quiet and deserted, since the shopping center doesn't open before noon on Sundays.
I guess the police had stopped any sightseers from nosing around, but the word was sure to have spread by now. They'd be here in droves later. Somebody else's trouble always acts like a giant magnet, and it was a sure bet that lots of people who turned up today would be the same ones that couldn't wait to leave yesterday. Whether they'd get inside or not was another story.
I found George talking to a couple of his men just outside the doors at the west side of the parking lot. He beckoned me over and introduced the men as Detectives Hobart and Bartolo.
They were both about my height, five-foot-eight give or take, and just about as skinny, although I sensed a wiry, controlled strength in both of them. Dressed in matching navy blue blazers and grey slacks, they each had dark, curly hair styled in what could only be a regulation cut, and they both wore black, solid-looking shoes polished to the nth. Pete and Repeat, I thought. They were so alike, there was no way it was accidental. I was tempted to take them home and stand them on the mantle.
I swallowed hard. “Pleased to meet you, Detectives,” I said. “I'm Jenny Turnbull, Promotion Director for Rosewood. I take it you're working on our shooting?”
One of them said “Ma'am”, and the other one touched his head in a kind of salute.
They both had better-than-average good looks, but the more I looked at them, the more I felt a menace in their similarity, as if they were saying “if one of us doesn't get you, the other one will.”
“Well, Jenny,” said George. “What's this about? I got a message that you have urgent information about what happened here yesterday?”
“Well, I don't know if it's directly related to the shooting. Probably not, but here it is.” I launched into the story about my meeting with Dick Simmons to the three of them. When I got to the bit about his promise to “fix the whole fucking mall”, three pairs of eyebrows went up, and Pete and Repeat looked at each other.
Halfway through my recital, George shoved his hands in his pockets, and by the time I finished, the skin on his normally handsome face had tightened, and his mouth was a thin slash.
“His address?” His voice was terse and came through his teeth.
“I don't know,” I said. “I didn't ask. I just told him to come back on Monday.”
“You suggesting we wait till Monday to speak to this man, Miss Turnbull?”
Uh-oh, he's getting formal, he must be really angry, I thought. Play it straight here, Jenny.
“Of course not, Inspector,” I looked up at him, way up. “I'm simply telling you I didn't ask for his address, but it's probably on his repair ticket. Gord Jenkins'll have that. I brought the tenant emergency list with me.” His hand appeared and darted out, grabbing the list. “Gord's home phone number's on it.”
George shoved the paper at Hobart hyphen Bartolo and jerked his head towards a car sitting at the curb.
“Get Jenkins and then get Simmons. I'll be in a meeting for one hour. Have them waiting when I get out.”
He turned and walked off without so much as a glance or a word in my direction. Determined not to walk behind him, I got back in my car and circled the lot a few times before parking and going upstairs. I'd seen George in a snit before. It wasn't pleasant, and even though I was willing to concede it might be somewhat justified this time, I didn't want to be in his line of sight before he'd had time to get over it.
The management offices boast a large conference room off the main suite with seating capacity for sixteen around a solid teak table. The far wall, facing the door, is corkboard, and an architect's floor plan of the Food Court was pinned to it.
Someone had been in and set out filled water jugs, glasses, paper and pencils. Two coffee pots were full and sitting on warming rings on a credenza off to one side, with three plates of donuts beside them.
Bob Graham, Keith Armstrong and Anderson were already in the room, standing talking at the far end of the table. Helen came in just after I sat down. Her uniform, grey slacks, navy blazer and snow white shirtblouse looked particularly crisp this morning. She walked over without a glance at George and sat in the chair next to mine, handing me a brown paper lunch bag.
“Here's a couple of blueberry muffins. I made them just after you left.”
“Thanks, Pocahontas,” I said. And we were back on track.
“Who else is coming?” she asked.
“I'm not sure,” I said. “I thought it was just the four of us and George, and we're all here, so I've no idea what the holdup is.”
“How did your appointment go? What did he think about your shoe man—what's his name again?”
“Simmons. Dick Simmons. Let's just say I'm not your Inspector's favourite person at the moment.” I told her what had happened outside and about Pete