Killer Market

20

« ^ » “The democratic industrial movement of the present era of civilization tends towards increasing the circle of the consumers of luxuries.”The Great Industries of the United States, 1872

J. Basul Noble’s is located across from the Radisson in what could have been a clothing store, judging from the full-length front windows. The interior walls were painted to suggest a stone farmhouse somewhere in Tuscany, the farmhouse perhaps of a prosperous peasant. Trompe l’oeil windows overlooked pleasant gardens and primitive “paintings” of naively drawn farm animals decorated the walls. The heavy walnut side chairs had rush seats and a rooster carved in the middle of each back. The dishes were colorful pottery pieces handpainted in rustic Italian patterns.

The snowy tablecloths, the soft lights, the flash of jewelry, the hum of conversation, the entrancing smell of herbs in unfamiliar combinations—it was a heady mix of money and power at play.

I later learned that there was a more casual jazz bar downstairs, but upstairs was clearly the place for fine dining during Market, the place to see and be seen.

By the time I’d driven downtown and found a place to park my car, it was a few minutes past eight when I approached the maitre d’.

“Judge Simmard’s table?” I asked.

“Oh, good,” said Elizabeth Patterson from behind me. “We aren’t the last after all.”

“Good evening, Mrs. Patterson, Mr. Patterson,” said the maitre d’, beaming at the three of us indiscriminately. “You aren’t late at all. Judge Simmard has only been here a few minutes himself. If you’ll follow me, please.”

Easier said than done in that crush. The tables and chairs were so closely placed that we almost had to turn sideways to pass between. Happily, Judge Simmard’s table for eight was near the front of the room—probably so that his wheelchair would disrupt the fewest possible diners as he came and went. We were tightly jammed against the wall, but surrounded by fewer tables.

The men were in dinner jackets and black tie. Elizabeth Patterson wore a beautiful champagne silk organza shirt-dress with long full sleeves and gold embroidery on the cuffs and collar. Her diamond earrings were even more stunning than her rings. The other woman—in the confusion of round-robin introductions, I wasn’t sure if she was Mrs. Simmard or Mrs. Craft or, indeed, neither—wore an understated rose brocade evening suit.

I was in my all-purpose black raw silk that could be dressed up or down. Local judges often invite me to dinner as a courtesy when I’m in their towns, and I never know if I’m going to find myself at a country club or sitting on a stool in a strip mall’s bar-and-grill, but this dress can handle either. The skirt is short and the front has a simple square neckline that looks great with my chunky silver necklace. With the jacket, the dress is proper enough for a church funeral; without the jacket, narrow straps crisscross a back cut so low that I have to wear a special bra. Silver earrings, black stockings and high heels complete the look—and the look I got from my dinner partner, Mr. Han (“Call me Albert”) Shu-Kai assured me that my dress could certainly hold its own with those of the other two women, with or without diamonds.

Superior Court Judge Cicero “Chick” Simmard frankly looked like Mr. Toad of Toad Hall, but he was an affable and considerate host. On my right, next to him, was Mr. Han, CEO of a Singapore company that exported huge amounts of rattan and wicker furniture to the U.S. On my left was Lester Craft, a thin, friendly-faced man with dark curly hair and glasses. Beyond him were Elizabeth Patterson; a robust Californian named Bob Something, who headed an international robotics company; Jay Patterson; and the soft-spoken woman they called Nancy, whose last name and connection I never did quite understand.

That’s the trouble with tables for eight (tables for ten are even worse). Eight for dinner may be fine in a quiet private home, but dropped down in a crowded restaurant? There’s no way, short of yelling, to be heard across the table, so you settle for conversation with the two on either side of you at best

The cuisine tended toward northern Italian and ordering took time as Judge Simmard conferred with the waiter about appropriate wines.

A Beaujolais and a Macon Blanc arrived at our table and were poured and then lifted in toast “Welcome to High Point my friends,” said Judge Simmard, “and here’s to a killer market for everyone—figuratively speaking, of course!”

There was a moment of shocked silence, then Chick Simmard flushed like an embarrassed schoolboy. “Oh, my goodness! Jay, Elizabeth, I’m so sorry. How stupid of me to forget. I do apologize.”

The Pattersons made appropriate murmurs.

“That’s right,” said Han in flawless, colloquial English. “Nolan was your VP of Sales, wasn’t he, Patterson?”

Albert Han was solidly built, fortyish, and urbane. His gold watch and signet ring were clearly expensive, yet unostentatious. His dinner jacket was impeccably tailored and his nails were more beautifully manicured than mine.

“Do the police have a suspect yet?” he asked Simmard.

“I’m afraid I know nothing more than you,” he said, smiling at Han blandly as he turned to Jay Patterson and the quiet woman between them on his other side.

Since he knew enough to send me his phone number through Detective Underwood, I appreciated Simmard’s discretion.

As our appetizers appeared, so did three attractive young women. Drew Patterson and a couple of her friends stopped to say hello on their way to the jazz bar downstairs. There were shadows under Drew’s eyes that hinted at the sadness of the past two days, but she was still lovely in a midnight blue dress that clung to her upper body, then flared at her knees for dancing.

“Ah, the Princess Patterson!” said Simmard as the other men rose. “Forgive me if I don’t stand, my dear.”

“Oh, don’t get up for me,” she said, her hand on the back of his wheelchair.

It was evidently an old joke between them and she dropped a kiss on his jowly cheek as she greeted her parents’ friends and smiled at me across the table.

She really was a princess, I thought. Poised and well-schooled in graciousness, yet nevertheless basking in her position and their approval. And if there was a trace of “I’m entitled” in her smile, well, who could blame her for growing up a little spoiled when one saw such overwhelming pride on Jay Patterson’s face and such uncritical love in Elizabeth’s eyes?

They left, and the noise level in the room continued to climb until conversation was possible only with the persons nearest, so I turned to Albert Han and asked the usual questions. He volunteered interesting facts about rattan and wicker and some amusing anecdotes regarding the perils of international trade. And he was courteous enough to ask me about life as a district court judge. I responded in kind with the tale of two drunk hunters who shot up a strip of retread from a tractor-trailer tire thinking it was an alligator.

Chick Simmard was back for the punch line and chuckled appreciatively. “I heard about that the last time I was down in Beaufort. Darlene Leonard was telling it. She speaks mighty highly of you, Judge Knott.”

“Please, it’s Deborah,” I said. “And I think highly of Mrs. Leonard, too.”

As he and Han began to exchange deep-sea fishing experiences, I glanced at Lester Craft on my left. He was at the fringe of a four-way conversation between the Pattersons, the Chicago robotics executive and the quiet woman who, I’d decided, was not Mrs. Simmard, and he seemed more than willing to turn to a one-on-one.

“Are you with the furniture industry, too?” I asked.

He smiled. “You could say so. I’m the editor of Furniture/Today.”

Normally a slick, full-color weekly, the tabloid-size trade paper comes out every day during Market with fresh updates on what’s hot, who’s buying, national and international trends, and provocative columnists, along with who’s hosting the best parties, and discreet gossip. Today’s front page carried as much news as was known about Chan’s death: Chandler Nolan Dies at Market/Foul Play Suspected in Sales Veep’s Death.

“I understand you’re a friend of Nolan’s mother-in-law,” he said. “And that you were with her when she found him.”

“Is that what Heather told you?” I parried.

“Who?”

“Heather McKenzie.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think I know anyone by that name.”

I smiled. “I wouldn’t have thought your editorial staff was so large that you wouldn’t know all your reporters.”

He continued to look at me blankly, still shaking his head. “We don’t have a Heather McKenzie on our staff.”

“But she has a Furniture/Today press badge. She’s a reporter—”

“Not for me, she’s not,” he said emphatically.

Could he be right? I remembered thinking her word choice was odd at the Century showroom when she said “I may actually get a real article after all.” And what else had she told me? “I think she’s on assignment from your Massachusetts office? Writing profiles of important Market figures?”

Massachusetts was the magic word. His face cleared as he finally recognized Heather’s name.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “The freelancer. Right.”

I decided that it might be fun to get Lester Craft into a poker game.

Except that it would be taking candy from a baby. His face was much too expressive to run a bluff.

Two things were now quite obvious: 1) he did remember Ms. Heather McKenzie; 2) she was not a reporter.

Not by Mr. Craft’s definition anyhow.