7 Madness in Miniature (8 page)

Bev and I moved closer and put our heads together. “Did you get anything from Maddie about the letter or about her Taylor snit?” I asked, talking in a low voice at a rapid speed.

Bev clucked her tongue, disappointed. “Sorry, I didn’t see the full address, but I did notice a large uppercase
T
and the rest of the name could definitely have been Taylor.”

“That’s what I guessed.”

“I tried to get a better look, but our Ms. Maddie was very careful.” I believed her. She looked around now to be sure Maddie was still out of earshot. It was clear who was in charge of the household.

“She’s always careful,” I said.

“Bummer. We have Maddie and Taylor at kid odds and Skip and June at grown-up odds.”

“Do you know what that’s about?” I asked, no longer whispering.

“It’s a time thing, I’m pretty sure. They both put in a lot of overtime at their jobs. And I think Skip, lovely lad though he is, still has this idea that man’s work is more important than woman’s work, so it’s okay for him to be late or miss a date, but not for her.”

“Well, he is a cop.”

“She has a demanding job, too. Software deadlines are serious. She’s told me about the fierce competition in the business, and how important it is to meet the launch date when they have a new product.”

“It’s still not life and death,” I noted.

“Whose side are you on?”

“Oops,” I said.

Before I turned over my crafts table and significant collection of glues to Maddie and Bev, it occurred to me that Bev might be able to answer a question that Skip had glossed over last night. He never did tell me what exactly was the murder weapon. Bev cleared it up for me.

“We told the press it was a vase; actually it might have been twelve vases,” Bev said.

“Meaning?”

“Skip told me that they found a wooden crate containing a dozen pottery vases, each one about ten inches high. One vase was out of the crate and seems to have been used to bash in…well, fallen hard on the victim’s head. The other vases were half in, half out, lots of broken pieces. The way the crime scene guys have reconstructed things, so far, anyway—Palmer and the killer walked out of the lounge where they might have been meeting and entered the general area of the store together. They were right on the border between the warehouse side and the retail side when the earthquake hit. The killer seized the opportunity, took a vase out of the crate and smashed it…you know. Then he or she pushed or lifted the crate onto Palmer’s body, and smashed a few vases afterward, to make it look like the crate had fallen on Palmer from above.”

“But that didn’t happen? The earthquake didn’t do it?”

“No, the trajectories were all off. There was a set of shelves near the crate but it wasn’t high enough off the floor to send the crate where it landed; and the widths didn’t compute; and it’s unlikely that anyone would have stashed the vases on the shelf like that in the first place, et cetera, et cetera. Plus, why would only one vase fall out of its mooring in the packing material and land on Palmer’s head in just the right spot? They have all kinds of photos to back up this theory.”

“It sounds as though the killer was sloppy.”

“Probably spur of the moment. Crime of passion, as they say. The killer and victim might have been fighting and then the earthquake was handy to cover up a last burst of anger.”

Slap, slap, slap.
The sound of running flip-flops. Maddie bounded into the atrium waving a narrow streamer of some kind.

“Ta da!” Her announcement was accompanied by a wide grin, the kind I hadn’t seen enough of lately.

On a closer look at the streamer, Bev and I expressed our delight with words like “wow” and “amazing,” and high-fives all around. Maddie had produced miniature crime scene tape.

“I typed out the words, then I copied and pasted them over and over in the smallest font I have, then I highlighted them in yellow. If I had yellow paper, I would have just printed them on it. Then I cut the pieces…I mean, with scissors…and strung them together with glue”—she held up the newly created long strip with the never-ending phrase POLICE CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS—“and ta da!”

I couldn’t have been more thrilled, by the result of Maddie’s creativity, of course, but even more so by her increasing interest and enthusiasm for miniatures. It had taken some time to win the young soccer-loving Maddie over to the craft, and today’s leap into a project all her own brightened my life considerably.

I left the house, knowing my crafts table was in good hands.

I drove downtown,
my car’s A/C much too underpowered for the usual increase in midafternoon temperatures. My hands were sticky on my steering wheel, my face flushed from overheating. I hoped the not-yet-open SuperKrafts had a cooler climate, though I had a feeling that the managers’ tempers would be flaring no matter what the weather.

At two forty-five on a Sunday afternoon, most shops were still open. I marveled again at the brand new sidewalk on both sides of Springfield Boulevard, all the way to the corner where Rosie’s Bookshop sat. SuperKrafts was the generous funding agency for the sidewalk project, which included new parking lots behind its own store as well as a small park in front of Civic Center.

Incentives worked both ways, as I’d learned. The town council had given a tax break to the giant retailer, in the form of a sliding scale that was based on their profits. Theoretically, the town would still be ahead because of the enormous income from the sales tax SuperKrafts would generate. The vision was that when crafters from all over the area came to Lincoln Point to buy their supplies, they’d also send their kids to Video Jeff’s while they shopped, stop for lunch at Willie’s Bagels across the street, and pick up gifts and odds and ends at Rosie’s and at Abe’s Hardware before having dessert at Sadie’s. Everyone would prosper. Time would tell.

I parked in the unfinished lot behind SuperKrafts. I had a few minutes before the meeting and took a chance that Skip might be available to answer a couple of questions that could be key to the impromptu gathering I was called to. I tried his cell phone first and wasn’t quite prepared for his opening. I’d always felt that Caller ID gave an unfair advantage to the person on the receiving end. A heads-up. Or a warning.

“I heard you really hit it off with Bebe Mellon,” he said. “She wants you to visit every day.”

“You’re so well-informed. No wonder you’re rising in the ranks.” I realized that if that was the best I could come up with, I should stop playing the smart-remarks game.

“Yeah, I was trying to be a wise guy, but I’m also telling you the truth. Bebe put in a request to talk to you again.”

“Seriously?”

“Uh-huh. She’s seeing the handwriting on the wall. She knows you’re the most influential person in the department.” I blew a poor imitation of a raspberry into the phone. “Sorry, there I go again,” he said. “But I am serious about her request. You busy?”

I gave Skip my current location, mission, and reason for calling, assuring him also that I was more than happy to return to jail.

“What’s the status of Craig Palmer’s body?” I asked, having no time to think of more euphemistic phrasing.

“We’re done on this end,” he said. “I believe he’s headed home to New York on Wednesday afternoon.”

The day scheduled for SuperKrafts’ Grand Opening. “Do you know if Craig’s family is planning to come here to claim his body?”

“Not as far as I know. They’ve declined the option of escorting him home. I heard they’ve made arrangements with Miller’s for transport.”

There was never a way around the awkwardness of dealing with a dead person or talking about him. I’d had my own sad business with Miller’s Mortuary when Ken died, and remembered the words and phrases that were meant to be comforting:
departed
, like a train leaving the station, but scheduled to return soon;
passed on,
with the implication that the next phase was so much better for the person; gathering in a
parlor
, where soft conversation might be served along with tea; offerings of sympathy for the
loss
, as if the person might one day show up in a Lost and Found department. A cleansed vocabulary, falling short of the reality.

I buried my memories. I had what I needed from Skip. “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll visit Bebe as soon as this meeting is over.”

“I’ll have someone there to take your official statement. I kind of forgot that our little chat as the night turned into morning didn’t count. I’ll be at the station by then, too.”

“Where are you now? With June? Nosy aunts want to know.”

“Sure, that will work. Good luck at the meeting.”

Apparently Skip was with June. Mending whatever was wrong, I hoped.

* * *

I surveyed
the parking lot. There was as always a selection of trucks and vans with the SuperKrafts logo on the sides, plus the familiar rental cars—Catherine’s silver Taurus, and Leo’s Ford in a shade of blue they might have revived from the nineteen-fifties. I assumed one of the other cars, a red Camry close to the back entrance, was Megan’s. Nice that SuperKrafts could afford to allow each employee to rent his own car.

The large metal delivery door was (theoretically) always locked and alarmed, opened by punching a code into the keypad above the handle. Catherine, or some supercomputer in New York, changed the code every day during the preparations phase. Maisie, Bebe, and I and a few other residents were on an “as needed” list for meetings that included us. I had no code for today, and with any luck, my work as a town rep was over and I’d never have one again. I rang the loud, harsh-sounding bell.

Leo, taller than me by nearly a head, opened the door. His broad shoulders and portly physique were incongruous with some of the more girly products in the store. I had no trouble believing he wanted out of cute retail and back to a sleek office with a view of the Chrysler Building. His attire would certainly be more appropriate in midtown Manhattan. He might have been the only male in Lincoln Point wearing a long-sleeved shirt and tie on this hot summer Sunday.

“We’ve already started,” he said by way of greeting.

I checked my watch. Five minutes after three. Shouldn’t I have been congratulated for showing up at all on such short notice? Not that I liked being late, but the time spent praising Maddie’s miniature crime scene tape and then talking to Skip had slowed me down. I hadn’t realized SuperKrafts ran such a tight ship, and in any case, I wouldn’t have given up the chance to applaud Maddie’s achievement, nor the opportunity for police intel, like any good operative.

“I’ll try to catch up,” I said.

I followed Leo inside the delivery area, across a wide concrete floor as dimly lit as my garage with its nightlight, toward what would soon be the employee’s lounge. The retail area was dark, thanks to the specially coated front windows. I couldn’t see the spot where I’d figured Palmer had been found. I wondered how long I’d have to wait before reasonably being able to excuse myself to use the rest room, conveniently located a few yards into the main part of the shop where crime scene tape had been up not long ago.

One short wall of the meeting room was set up with a kitchen counter; two other walls were lined with vending machines, lockers, and a bulletin board. Catherine and Megan sat across from each other at a long table, stacks of paper in front of them. I arrived just in time to hear Megan’s position on the agenda item Catherine had prepared me for on the phone—to open grandly or not to open grandly on Wednesday.

“I say we proceed as planned,” Megan said, tapping her pen on one of the small notepads on the table. “I vote Grand Opening on Wednesday.”

“I’m not sure why you even have a vote,” Catherine said. “You know nothing about this store. Have you even walked into the retail area?”

“I don’t have to. I’ve seen a million like it. I don’t see why we can’t have the opening. It’s not as if Craig’s body is still here in the store,” Megan said.

Catherine’s face took on a horrified look. “How can you be so callous?” she asked, her voice high and shaky.

“Oh, really, Catherine. We don’t need to impress Mrs. Porter,” Leo said, pulling out a chair for me and taking the one at the head of the table.

The room gave off an eerie ambience, with a warehouse-high ceiling and low-level lighting. The hum of the refrigerator and the vending machines competed with the crackling of the fluorescent lights. I was acutely aware that beyond us in the vast store full of merchandise was a particular spot on the floor, where Craig Palmer’s body had lain for several hours. I had too vivid a picture of him in my mind. I regretted the highly effective air-conditioning and wished I’d worn a sweater.

Catherine crossed her arms, ready to speak again. “I’m sorry if a little respect is too much to ask of you both. Craig Palmer was our boss—”

“Your boss,” Leo interrupted.

“—and our colleague,” Catherine continued.

I cleared my throat. All three turned to me, seeming to take the sound as a maneuver on my part to enter the skirmish, which was not my intent. My intent was to clear my throat.

“What do you say, Mrs. Porter?” Megan asked.

I cleared my throat again, this time to stall before I spoke. “I understand that Craig’s remains will be sent to his parents on Wednesday.” I had to admit I enjoyed the surprised glances that were sent my way. I wished I’d been able to impress my ALHS students as easily with my inside knowledge of Shakespeare. “Mr. and Mrs. Palmer won’t be coming to town,” I continued, “but in my opinion, it seems in bad taste to have any kind of celebration until their son’s body is back with his family.”

“See,” Catherine said, as if something had been proven, or as if my opinion mattered.

Leo and Megan looked at each other. I thought I detected slight nods. “I suppose postponing the event would be okay,” Megan said. “We can open for business, low key, on Wednesday, so we don’t have to change the schedules of the workers and do a truckload of paperwork, but we won’t have the balloons and cake, et cetera, et cetera, until Saturday.”

Nods all around.

“Not as good as Wednesday, but better than waiting a whole week,” Leo said.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “I would have thought a weekend would be the obvious choice for a Grand Opening.”

The three professional retailers shook their heads. “Too much competition on weekends,” Megan explained. “The outlet malls around here are a big attraction—you can hit more stores at once. The idea was that we’d have Wednesday all to ourselves.”

“Also, crafters tend to be retired ladies”—Leo kept his eyes on me as he spoke—“and they’re not going to be working on a Wednesday. On the other hand, their kids or younger friends will be at a job so the crafters will have nothing to do but shop.”

I wondered if Leo realized the incongruities in his final thought—putting
crafters
and
nothing to do
in the same sentence. I could have taken the time to point out that the crafter in front of him also tutored adults studying for their high school equivalency diplomas and worked year-round on fund-raisers for local causes. But I was used to the stereotype, and didn’t resent the profiling as much as Catherine seemed to. She shot Leo a look that said,
Do you realize who you’re talking to
?

We moved on to important topics like balloons and refreshments, all of which had been ordered, but now would have to be stored longer (the balloons) or rescheduled for delivery on Saturday (food and drink).

“I think it would be nice if we had a little memorial service with the ribbon cutting,” Catherine said.

“Listen to yourself,” Leo said.

“I mean, just a few words to acknowledge that a person very important to this project has been…was…”

“Is no longer with us,” Megan said.

“Oh, for heaven’s sakes,” Leo said, probably straining to keep his response G-Rated.

“Everyone knows Craig was murdered on this spot,” Megan said.

“Not on this spot,” Leo said. “Out there.” He pointed to the space beyond the meeting room. “And now you’re afraid to even walk that far.”

“I’m not afraid. There’s just no need to. Maybe that spot will be an attraction. But let’s not flaunt it.”

“Flaunt it?” Catherine yelled. “What’s wrong with you? You think I want to use Craig’s death as a marketing tool? How can you think that?” She was hoarse by the time she finished.

I’d had enough of SuperKrafts on what should have been a relaxing, crafting Sunday. I felt I’d given enough input. The rest was about politics, marketing, and sales, none of which I was adept at.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m going to the rest room. I’ll stop by before I leave to see if there’s anything else I can help you with.”

I wasn’t surprised that I got no argument.

* * *

Walking
out of the lounge into the store didn’t help me erase the image of a departed, deceased person who had passed away. On the floor a few yards in, I saw bits of packing straw, the kind that was really plastic and familiar to me from shipments of miniatures to my home. I figured that was where the crate of vases had been. I assumed that the vases themselves had been taken into evidence and tested for blood and fingerprints. I pushed away the idea that they’d one day be back on the shelves, and I vowed never to buy a vase in SuperKrafts.

In front of me, the aisles of the store were beautifully organized. With the equivalent of sunglasses for a storefront and only dimmed overhead lights on, the merchandise was in shadow, but it wasn’t hard for me to make out items I’d seen accumulate on the shelves over the past months. Scrapbooking paper, stickers, rubber stamps, glue, and special pens were in one section; beads, string, and jewelry-making tools in another. The miniatures section held more items than were in the entire inventory of dollhouse stores I’d visited, which of necessity had given over square footage to other kinds of merchandise.

When I thought I’d reached the spot where Craig had been killed, I squatted and peered at the tiles in the floor, looking for signs of the struggle between Craig and his killer, a scene that would forever be associated with SuperKrafts in my mind. I ran my fingers along the grout, sniffed a piece of straw, squinted at a tiny shard of pottery. Except for my lack of official jacket, anyone watching might think I was a bona fide crime scene investigator. I wondered how the professionals decided what to pick up and bag for evidence, what to photograph, and what was useless and unrelated to the crime. Clearly the ceramic shard and bits of straw left behind were considered negligible.

I stood for a broader view, trying to guess how much of the area would have been marked off as a crime scene. I wished I’d gotten a look before they removed the tape. My survey took in more ceramics and straw, and at the outer limits of my view, something that caught the light of a low-level safety lamp—a stray blue-green bead on the floor. I walked over and picked it up. I squinted, and thought it might be a metallic-coated bead, with many facets. It was close enough to a rack that held beads in different sizes and colors to have fallen out of a package. Putting it in my purse made me feel useful, as if I’d just saved someone from slipping and falling. Failing that, I’d neatened up the store a bit.