Killer Market

26

« ^ » “The improvement in the making of fire-arms is one of the most noticeable features of the modern era of industry.”The Great Industries of the United States, 1872

In stark contrast to the organized clutter that lay behind those double doors off to the left, the reception area of Mulholland Design Studio was clean-lined minimal, a high-tech setting for the large black-and-white photographs, each framed in chrome strips, that lined the walls. Each featured a single piece of furniture, photographed alone like a piece of jewelry or a work of art, and each carried a company logo. Widdicomb, Baker, Henredon, Fitch and Patterson, and Ethan Allen were there among other blue-chip names, but pieces of Benchcraft, This End Up and Hickory Hill showed the range of Mulholland’s clientele and of the freelance designers who used these facilities.

“I’m sorry,” said the receptionist, “but we’re closed now. All of our designers are gone for the day and I was just getting ready to lock up.”

Indeed, she had already switched off the main lights in the reception area.

“We’re here to see Pell Austin,” I said. “He’s still around, isn’t he? I’m a friend—Judge Deborah Knott.”

“Let me check.” She pushed a button on her console phone. “Pell? There’s a Judge Knott here to see you. Shall I send her up?… Okay, I’ll tell her. You’ve got a key, right? Because I’m going to lock up down here.”

She put down the receiver, smiled, and gestured to the chrome and glass staircase. “You can use those stairs or there’s an elevator around the corner.”

I must not have been the first to give her such a blank look because she immediately pulled out a floor plan from beneath the counter.

“Here’s where we are. You go up these stairs, through the double doors, left, straight down the hall till it deadends in a cross corridor, take another left and keep going almost to the end. Pell’s door will be open and he says to holler if you don’t find him.”

Beyond the sleek chrome-plated doors on the next level lay the shabby workaday reality I remembered from my tour on Saturday morning. The concrete landing was painted black, as were the industrial-steel steps that led down into the studio area.

“Wow!” said Heather as we stood looking out over the various sets in different stages of being built or torn down.

The whole lower floor was almost in darkness now. The main overhead fluorescents had been turned off and only a few security lights lit the main path through the labyrinth. Yet I could see a bright glow from somewhere over on the far side, as if a single floor lamp had been left burning.

Outside, I knew that the sun was still fairly high in the western sky. In here though, it might as well have been midnight for all the shadowy gloom.

At least the second-floor halls were brightly lit and we kept taking left turns till we fetched up at Pell’s door.

“Ah, you found me.” His long pleasant face warmed with a smile of welcome that included Heather.

“I thought Lynnette was with you,” I said.

“She is. I told her she could go play in the toy section.”

I frowned. “You’re not worried about her wandering around down there in the dark?”

“Is she wandering? I told her not to go past the toys.” He walked past us and out into the hall a few steps to where the landing was.

We followed him. Immediately next to the steps below, a dining room vignette was half built. Or half dismantled. It was hard for a layman to tell. Beyond that, Lynnette sat on the floor under a torchère lamp, about a quarter of the way down one of the long rows. She was surrounded by teddy bears and other stuffed animals.

“Hey, Miss Deborah,” she called. Her braid had loosened and tendrils of fair hair tumbled about her face. “Look at all these bears!”

“You could be Goldilocks,” I called back. To Pell, I said, “I’m all turned around. Point me toward the reception area.”

“Over there.” He pointed across the wide dim expanse to the red exit light. “You came the whole width of the building.”

Like me, Heather was overwhelmed by all the stuff she could see from this landing: not just the movable walls or the two- and three-sided rooms filled with furniture or appliances, the cameras, table saws, workbenches, and so many aisles of accessories down on the floor, but also the chandeliers, paddle fans and hanging lights that were suspended from the catwalks and steel rafters that interconnected and crisscrossed the space overhead.

“And the door you brought Dixie and me through on Saturday?”

“Two aisles over and straight down to the back.”

In the far distance, I could see another red exit light, but between the black-painted floor and walls and the dim lights, it was difficult to make out enough detail for me to orient myself completely.

“Rats in a maze,” Pell said in his usual soft, self-deprecating tone. “Did you want to show Miss McKenzie around?”

“Heather,” she corrected him.

“Heather.” He smiled. “I can put more lights on for you.”

“I do want to show her something,” I said, “but not in the sense you mean. She wants to see Savannah’s hiding place.”

He stiffened. “I don’t think that’s a good idea at all.”

Heather and I had discussed this and I said, “It’s not for a news story, Pell. Remember how you told Dixie and me about that time she went away for four months right before you came here twenty-odd years ago?”

I could tell he thought I was betraying his trust and—by extension—Savannah’s.

“She didn’t go away to get over a love affair,” I said. “She went away to have a baby.”

“Ah.” Pell looked at Heather a long considering moment, then nodded. “Yes, I see.”

“I brought pictures,” Heather said, hefting a manila envelope in her hand. “Documents. I thought if I could just find her, sit quietly for a few minutes and show her some of my baby pictures, maybe she’d—”

“Clasp you to her bosom and tell you to call her Mommy?”

“Pell!” I was surprised that he could be so harsh.

“Sorry, Deborah. Heather. But even when Savannah was well, sentimentality was never her thing. And now we’re dealing with a very sick woman. She’s not going to respond in any predictable way. So I really am sorry, ladies, but I can’t let you in.” He turned to me. “Besides, David Underwood took my key, remember?”

“I expect you found another,” I said dryly. “And of course, Savannah has her own. She’s in there right now, isn’t she?”

“I mean it, Deborah, you can’t go in.” His long homely face was distressed.

I held up my hands to calm him. “We won’t. But, Pell, if she’s so sick, she needs help. You know she does.”

“I’m trying to convince her—”

“You can’t convince a delusional person. Believe me, I know. I sit on mental health hearings all the time. There are times when you just have to do what’s best for the person until they’re well enough to make their own decisions again.”

“She didn’t kill anybody,” he said. “Not Chan, not—”

He broke off abruptly.

“Not who, Pell?” I asked softly. “Evelyn? Is that why Savannah flipped out eighteen months ago? You said she was here when Evelyn fell, and you meant that literally, didn’t you?”

Heather was bewildered. “Who’s Evelyn?”

“It was an accident.” Pell’s eyes were anguished. “It really was an accident. I was in the stacks rounding up a handful of things to dress the set when Evelyn went up the steps. Savannah was at the end of the aisle. I heard her gasp ‘Oh, no!’ just as Evelyn screamed. Then Savannah started screaming and everyone came running…”

His voice trailed off in memory. “She used to have cycles, Savannah did, and the highs kept getting higher and the lows were dragging bottom. She was near the end of a pretty bad low when it happened and she just couldn’t handle the pain. Seeing Evelyn fall knocked her for such a loop that we had to commit her to the local hospital till her father could send someone to take her back to Georgia.”

Pell turned to Heather. “You saw her in the hospital down there, so you know.”

“Yes.” She looked very young standing there, gazing up into his worried face. “But I also know I can’t go back to Boston without seeing her and having at least one serious talk together.”

Pell sighed. “Okay. I’ll try. Why don’t you sit down on the steps here? If I can get her to come out, she might feel less menaced if she’s taller.”

“Should I leave?” I asked.

“No,” said Heather. “She knows you.”

I sat down and leaned back on my elbows. “Okay. Tell her Ms. Sotelli’s here, too.”

As we waited, we watched Lynnette play. She had found an antique wicker doll carriage and tucked a few teddy bears in, then set up a tea party on the floor for the others. We could hear her murmuring to herself, carrying on a lively conversation for five or six different characters. It was all very peaceful and quiet.

“She probably won’t come,” Heather said pessimistically for the third time.

That’s when we heard footsteps in the hallway.

We had moved down a couple of steps to leave room for her to sit above us if she chose, but Pell followed behind her with a chair, which he placed on the landing.

Savannah stood looking down at us for a moment, then a formal smile crossed her lips and she took the chair as if it were a Hepplewhite in a formal drawing room. Her colorful chiffon scarves no longer looked jaunty, merely sad. Her pink ballerina slippers were filthy. Her hair could have used a good brushing, but her face and hands were clean.

“Ms. Sotelli, Miss McKenzie.” Her voice was as husky as ever. “How kind of you to visit. I confess I had not—”

From out of the darkness came two gunshots in rapid succession.

The shots were so unexpected that even though I’ve been raised around guns and actually had a .38 locked in the trunk of my car, it took a split second to register what was happening.

A third shot hit the steel railing above, spraying me with enamel paint chips before ricocheting off somewhere.

“Uncle Pell!” Lynnette screamed in terror and got up and started toward us.

“No!” I yelled, ducking and running down the steps to her. “Stay there! Lie down!”

But Pell was even faster. He pushed me aside and raced to snatch her up in his arms.

Another shot shattered the concrete wall beside Savannah’s head. Heather scrambled up the steps, grabbed Savannah’s hand and pulled her back into the hallway, out of the line of fire. As they ran for cover, yet another shot zinged past.

Even while listening for more shots, my mind was racing furiously. The shooter must be after Savannah since Heather and I had been there several minutes and no shots were fired till Savannah appeared on the stairs. But why shoot a delusional old woman?

Mentally I tried to add up the shots. Five or six? And did the shooter have extra bullets?

In the sudden silence, we heard a crash, then staccato footsteps running at least three aisles over.

“He’s getting away,” I told Pell. “Quick! Call Underwood.”

“Wait!” Pell cried, but I was already flying over the teddy bears, rushing toward the same door our assailant must be making for.

And would reach before me, unless I could somehow fool him into thinking someone was between him and the exit?

I grabbed a glass vase from the shelf I was passing and lobbed it as hard as I could over the shelves toward the exit. It landed with a satisfactory loudness and sounded as if it had taken a couple of other pieces of glass along, too.

And it worked!

The sound of running footsteps immediately swerved aside and headed out into the studio area. As he ran, crashes marked his direction. Glassware and metal fell to the floor as he brushed past them.

In the dim light, I saw a narrow cross aisle up ahead and put on more speed as I turned left and followed the sounds ahead of me. I stubbed my toe sharply on some metal object that he’d dislodged in the aisle. Broken glass crunched under my shoes and I almost tripped over a stack of baskets.

Then I heard another set of footsteps.

“This way!” called Heather. “He’s heading for the front office.”

I heard her roar, “Where the hell’s the fucking lights?” Then a crash from her direction. She must have tripped over a cable.

The first footsteps vanished. Had he stopped short or was he hurrying across a carpeted set?

I came around a wall in time to see Heather silhouetted against the security tights near the front.

“Deborah? Where are you? Where’d he go?‘ she called, running blindly toward me.

“Sh-hh!” I hissed as I strained to see and hear.

Then I caught a flash of white legs mounting upwards in the darkness. Someone was on those movable stairs. Theoretically, the steps went nowhere. In actuality, someone agile could probably pull up and onto one of the overhead catwalks and then run along a clear path to an unobserved exit.

Someone in white silk slacks.

Of course.

Although I was pretty sure that she killed Chan, I still didn’t know why: but I could make a pretty good guess as to why she thought she had to kill Savannah.

“You can’t get away,” I called. “I know who you are!”

I saw a flash and heard the explosion in the same instant as the bullet destroyed a portable light stand off to the side. God, she was a lousy shot.

“Help me,” I told Heather, who was puffing like a little steam engine as we both reached the sinuous set of steps at the same time.

I fumbled for the brake release, then we gave the thing a mighty tug and swirled it out into open space just as Pell finally found the lights.

Dazzled by the sudden brightness, I looked up into Drew Patterson’s startled face the exact instant she lost her balance and tumbled down the steps. The gun went flying and she bounced a couple of times, then landed at the bottom, whimpering with pain.

“You bitch!” said Heather.

“Why?” I asked.

“It was an accident,” Drew moaned. “An accident.”

“Accident?” Heather was speechless with rage. “You damn near kill us and all you can say is it’s a fucking accident?”

“Shut up, Heather,” I said pleasantly. “Which was the accident, Drew? Chan’s death or Evelyn’s?”

“My shoulder,” she moaned. “I think it’s broken.”

“Then tell me what I want to know and I’ll see about an ambulance.”

Her face was gray and twisted with pain, but I was having a hard time mustering up any sympathy.

“Both of them were accidents,” she wailed. “Honest. I was mad at Chan.”

“He was going off to Malaysia without you,” I said, “so you killed him.”

“I didn’t know he was that allergic. I just wanted to make him a little sick. First I wasn’t going to, but he was flirting with you, he was rude to Dad, rude to me—”

She tried to sit up, then gasped in agony.

“So while he was dancing with your mother, you went back to the ALWA party, put a couple of those brownies in a plastic bag that was lying on the table and smashed up some of your mother’s penicillin tablets. Then, when he was leaving and stopped to say goodnight, you slipped them into his pocket.”

“I told him to think about me when he was eating them. But I only meant to make him sick, not kill him. I swear it!”

“But you did mean to kill Evelyn so that you could have him,” I said inexorably.

“No! It really was an accident. I tripped and bumped the stairs. You see how easy they are to move. I barely touched them, but they went flying and poor Evelyn—Oh, my shoulder! Please. Please.”

I turned away, sickened, and saw Pell a few feet away. His hands were clenching and unclenching and his face was ghastly.

“You came rushing up to Savannah that day. I thought you were upset because of Evelyn, but you knew she’d seen you and you were afraid she’d tell. That’s why you kept saying what a horrible accident it was, over and over, until Savannah reached out her hand and smoothed your hair and started crying. And cried for two days until they came for her. You did that. To both of them.”

Then that gentle man spat on the floor beside her and turned to go let the police in at the rear door.