Killer Pancake

“Well, Mrs. Schulz,” said Nick Gentileschi with that equine grin that made my skin crawl. “Whadya know? Seems you were just the person I was looking for.” Then, without a hint of apology for the fiasco of my in-store “bust” and “interrogation,” he shuffled through an untidy stack of papers next to the camera and retrieved a check. After scanning it, he handed it over: the balance due Goldilocks’ Catering on the Mignon banquet. I stuffed it in my skirt pocket. Gentileschi went on with, “Sorry we didn’t get it to you sooner. Personnel gave it to me when we heard your assistant went to the hospital. As you know, we’re in the middle of a major crime investigation here. An unexplained death doesn’t help the accounts get paid.”

I fingered the check in my pocket. There was something slimy, something Uriah Heepish, about Nick Gentileschi that made me increasingly uneasy. He’d gone straight from badgering and prejudging me to acting as if we were pals. Still, it would be better to have the man on my side than not. And Tom said I should cooperate. “I wasn’t lying when I came up here,” I confessed. “I don’t know why I was listening to what was going on at the counter, except that my assistant, the fellow who went to the hospital, is practically a member of our family. He is—was—Claire’s boyfriend. He’s devastated by her death, and I’m trying to help.”

Nick Gentileschi crossed his arms and wriggled in his chair. “We all cared about Claire, you can count on that. She was a good girl. We’ve stepped up security in the parking lot. Since it looks like foul play, we’re going to help the police in any way we can.”

I said innocently, “Yes, my husband referred to that. I certainly hope you are doing everything to help the case.” I rubbed my arm again. “Everything relevant, that is.”

He glanced at the picture of the home office again, clearly trying to decide what to tell me. He didn’t know how to balance secrecy with my irritation over being falsely arrested. There was an ego thing involved too. He was dying to show me what a big shot he was. I guess Albuquerque sent back good vibes, because he said, “Know what our biggest problem is, Mrs. Schulz?”

I shook my head sympathetically.

“Lawsuits.” Bingo. He exhaled and moved around in his chair, making it squeak. “If Claire Satterfield’s parents decide to sue because they think we have lax security in our parking lot, this store and this mall could go down the tubes all over again.” He raised his chin and added proudly, “I’ve been in this place a long time. Served as security chief when it was Ward’s. And believe me, being unemployed for four years was not something I want to repeat.”

I hadn’t been a psych major for nothing. In good Carl Rogers fashion, I said, “Not something you want to repeat.”

Abruptly, Nick Gentileschi stood up and braced himself against his desk. He looked at me for a moment and I squirmed. Then he announced, “We’re analyzing all the films of her sales, seeing if anyone suspicious turns up too often. But you figure”—he held out his large hands too close to my face and ticked off his points on his fingers—“someone had to know when she was going to be in the parking garage, that she was going to be there at all….”

Uncomfortable with his stare and his sudden closeness, I stood up too, and inched backward. “Figuring out Claire’s whereabouts wouldn’t have been too hard. Especially given that the banquet attracted so many high-rolling customers. Not to mention a few demonstrators.”

“Let me tell you what the problem is,” he said suddenly.

Another problem. I took up refuge against one of the smudged aquamarine walls. “Go ahead.”

“We’re not careful enough in this store,” he said matter-of-factly. “Yeah, we have security. But we’re not warning employees about people who come in with an ulterior motive. Take that guy you were talking to Schulz about.”

I raised my eyebrows innocently, and he grinned. He said, “The one with the record and his own cosmetics place? His name’s Reggie Hotchkiss. He’s around us all the time. I mean, why? What’s the big deal with our cosmetics counter? Guy went to jail in seventy for burning his draft card, destroying federal property. Convicted of trying to break into the CIA. He’s into makeup now because his mommy founded a cosmetics company. Now that he’s in his forties, Mr. Hotchkiss is suddenly interested in making money. Uh-huh. The guy’s spying on us, I say. That’s what I told Schulz. Could be more there, that’s what we’re going to discuss later,” he concluded grimly, “after I escort you out of the store.” He strode to the door and opened it.

“But … I don’t want to leave the store just now. What do you mean by ‘more there’?”

He wagged a finger at me. “Remember Martha Mitchell? Maybe you’re too young. She wanted to get too involved in her husband’s business too. A guy can’t be Attorney General and tend to a wife who’s always meddling.”

“A guy can’t be Attorney General if he’s intent on breaking the law,” I said sweetly.