It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Murder Page 2

  Mr. Harbrough looked straight at Mr. Meriwether. "Cheyenne's assignment was to identify a sin that she had committed, to design the letter and then to wear it all day in school."

  Mr. Meriwether said, "How interesting," but it was clear that he found nothing of interest in the story.

  Mr. Harbrough turned to his daughter smiling. "You left for school that morning wearing a giant letter 'H.' Do you remember what the 'H' stood for, Cheyenne?"

  Cheyenne looked at her dad with a wicked grin. She remembered. "Heathen."

  Mr. Harbrough sat back in his chair, the proud parent, beaming. "That's my girl!"

  Mr. Meriwether nearly spat out his coffee. "Surely you believe in God, don't you, Mayor Harbrough? Especially on this day of thanks. Who else should we give our thanks to?"

  Cheyenne's mother turned sharply on her companion. "Of course my daughter believes in God. Don't you dear?"

  Cheyenne wasn't sure what she believed. Religion was not a powerful force in her life. She had not given much thought to the subject of God. "I guess I believe there is a 'that which is knowable' and a 'that which is unknowable.' If you want to call the unknowable God, I guess I'm okay with that." She paused, gathering her thoughts. "But if you want to attribute divine knowledge to that unknowable . . . special powers . . . intentionality . . . well, no, I guess I don't really believe in that God."

  "Cheyenne!" Mother stared at daughter.

  "Don't give me that, Mother. You never gave a rat's ass for religion. At least you didn't until you began dating this . . . this . . ." Cheyenne sputtered to a stop.

  Mr. Meriwether's face turned crimson. "Rae?"

  Cassie had been sitting at the dining room table, sipping merlot and quietly watching the argument blossom. "I wonder what's happening in the football game." She was halfway out of her chair, when it became obvious that no one was ready for some football.

  Rae came to her dinner date's defense. "Cheyenne, I will not have you speak to my . . ." And Rae paused, looking for the right word to describe their relationship. ". . . my friend Chas in such a tone. I raised you better than that."

  Chas stood. "Get the coats, Rae. We're leaving."

  Rae made no move to leave.

  "Now, Rae."

  Stephen Harbrough did his best to look away, embarrassed for his ex-wife, for his daughter, for himself.

  Finally Rae stood up from the table. "Dinner was lovely, Cheyenne."

  Chas Meriwether walked quickly to the door. One hand on the doorknob, he turned to face his hostess. "I will pray for you, Madam Mayor."

  Santa on the Shuttle Bus

  Friday morning, Tommy awoke alone, hung over and, inexplicably, happy to be alive. He looked at the red suit hanging on his door. Tommy thought it unlikely he would be recognized at the mall, but he was inclined to be cautious. Tommy decided it would be smart to arrive at the mall white-whiskered and red-suited. Half an hour later, he was on his way to the Mall of New Jersey, Santa, AKA Tommy V. on a suspended license, behind the wheel of his 1996 Plymouth. He parked at the off-site employee lot, riding the employee shuttle to the mall itself, Santa on the shuttle bus, ho-ho-ho.

  Santa's Workshop was overrun with children, eagerly awaiting his arrival, some climbing on the giant candy canes, some punching their little brothers and others hopping up and down in urinary distress. All the while, their parents, yelling at the elves, demanded Santa's immediate attention.

  "Ho. Ho. Ho." Tommy settled into his special Santa chair, truly the king of all he surveyed. "Okay, who's first?"

  One by one, the kids climbed on his lap, with their earnest innocence and their special requests.

  "Play Station 2."

  "Malibu Barbie."

  "A red bicycle."

  "An iPod."

  "A puppy dog."

  After a while, the kids all seemed to run together, an endless line of innocent desire.

  "Harry Potter."

  "Operation."

  "Electronic battleship."

  "My mommy says I'm supposed to ask for my grandpa to get well."

  Santa looked at the young boy on his lap. "I'm sorry. What was that?"

  The little boy with the blond buzz cut repeated his request. "My mommy says I'm supposed to ask for my grandpa to get well."

  Santa looked more closely at the kid sitting on his lap. "What's your name, kid?"

  "Tommy."

  Santa almost blurted out, me too, until he remembered his name, for the moment, was Santa.

  Santa spotted an older man with thinning hair, a caved-in chest and hacking cough. "Is that your grandfather?"

  The boy shook his head vigorously from side to side. "No." He pointed to a man standing off to one side, a middle-aged man with a blond buzz cut, broad shoulders, rock hard, with just the traces of impending weight gain. "Him."

  Santa examined the man with interest. "He looks okay to me."

  Tommy fidgeted, suddenly shy sitting on Santa's lap. "Am I allowed to ask for two things?"

  Santa asked, "Have you been a good boy this year?"

  Tommy smiled sweetly, playing to his audience of one. "I've been double good."

  Santa smiled. "Go for it, kid."

  "A Dell dimension 4700 with a 3.2 gigahertz Pentium processor and a flat panel monitor."

  In the first hour, Santa, aka Tommy V., estimated he must have had a hundred whining kids on his lap, a hundred demanding moms on his case. His eyes traveled along the nearly infinite line of kids waiting for Santa, scanning for MILFs. I can't effing believe what I have to do to satisfy my girlfriend. Santa signaled to the photographer.

  Santa was on a break. It had been a difficult morning, the crowd larger and more demanding than he expected, even for Black Friday. It was as if a year of lingering disappointment had been unleashed on this first day of lap sitting and gift listing. Santa felt like he was the world's complaint department.

  Santa was on a break, but it took no great intellect to realize, with his white beard and red suit, there was no break for Santa. Anywhere he might venture in the mall, Santa Claus was still on duty. Eating a slice of pizza in the food court, he was Santa. Reading magazines in the bookstore, Santa. Looking for blue jeans in the Gap, Santa. Shoplifting cigarettes in the drug store, Santa.

  Tommy V. had barely finished the first morning of the first shift of the first official shopping day of the holiday season, and he was already rethinking his decision to spend a month at the mall.

  Standing at the urinal, he was still Santa and he still drew attention. Tommy always had trouble pissing in public. He ducked into a stall, grateful for a precious few minutes of privacy. When the men's room emptied, Tommy considered lighting up a Newport, but the beard was too much trouble. He sat in the stall lost in thought, grateful for a seated moment without a child squirming on his lap.

  Fully clothed he sat in the stall; inexplicably he started to sing.

  "You better watch out, you better not cry, you better not pout, I'm telling you why . . ."

  From just outside the stall, someone picked up the tune.

  "Santa Claus is coming to town."

  Peering under the door, Tommy saw two pair of legs, tree trunks really, a small forest of legs, under the door.

  "Get the fuck out here, Santa. Now." Tommy didn't immediately recognize the voice. He could handle this, he told himself.

  When Tommy opened the door, he discovered that the voice was attached to the Big Mack and Big Mack was attached to a Smith & Wesson 686P.

  "Get out here." The normally mute Big Mack was enjoying this way too much.

  Tommy was genuinely confused. "What the fu—"

  "Get out here," Big Mack repeated.

  Tommy had not led an exemplary life. Still, he had never stared into the barrel of a handgun before. "C'mon. Put the gun away. Shit, what if someone walks in here?"

  "Shut the fuck up." This time he pointed with the gun. "Now."

  Little Mack looked at his dad. "It's okay, you can put the gun away. Tommy's not gonna b
e trouble." He turned to Tommy. "Are ya?"

  Tommy vigorously shook his head. "Me? Trouble? Of course not."

  Little Mack laughed. "Look at you. When you said you had a job at the mall . . . Santa-fucking-Claus. What's the world coming to?"

  "So what can I do for you boys today?" asked Tommy, still standing inside the stall, the door propped open to talk with the Macks.

  Little Mack explained. "My dad and I talked. We decided to make sure you were telling the trut' about a job." Little Mack laughed again, a rumble deep in his throat. "I love the way you look in red." Little Mack examined the Santa suit. "Come on out here and give us a show, Tommy."

  Tommy reluctantly came out of the stall.

  "Give us a look." And Little Mack motioned with his arm for Tommy to do a three-sixty. Slowly Tommy showed off his Santa suit, from all angles.

  Little Mack grunted his approval. Big Mack nodded. "This'll be perfect Tommy. Here's the deal. We're prepared to take a payment every week until you're paid up."

  Tommy tried to express his thanks, but Little Mack wasn't done yet. "But there's somethin' else you gotta do for us."

  "What I gotta do?"

  Little Mack said, "Here's the thing, Tommy. While you're in the mall, my dad wants you to do some Christmas shopping for him."

  Tommy was confused. "Is that all?"

  Little Mack grinned. "He's got a pretty long shopping list."

  Tommy had a bad feeling, but he had to ask. "So what? I'm supposed to buy the stuff and then what? You gonna count it against my debt?"

  The rumble started again in Little Mack's throat. "You're a pretty funny guy, Tommy. No . . . you're gonna pay up every dollar you owe us. And then, because of the inconvenience you caused, you're also gonna boost some stuff from the mall, electronics mostly and some jewelry."

  Big Mack brought the meeting to a close with the slightest nod of his balding head and exited the men's room without waiting for Tommy's response.

  Little Mack stared at Tommy. "We'll be in touch." Little Mack turned abruptly and heavy-stepped off after his dad.

  Doing Thirty in the Fast Lane

  When Cassie agreed to meet Cheyenne for breakfast at the Eggery, she did not intend to eat. Thanksgiving still sat heavy in her stomach. The waitress did her best to push the specials—"We have—grrr—turkey hash, turkey pancakes and egg 'n' turkey sandwiches"—but Cassie was not tempted.

  "I'll just have coffee this morning, and lots of it." She looked across the table at Cheyenne who ordered a bran muffin with her coffee. "I was surprised you didn't invite a guy to Thanksgiving dinner."

  Cheyenne frowned. "I had this pipe dream about getting my parents back together."

  Cassie sipped her coffee. "I guess when your mom showed up with a date . . ." Cassie didn't bother to finish her thought.

  "Yeah," Cheyenne frowned. "Think about it, Cassie. I'm not dating anyone right now. You're not dating anyone. But my mother's got a date. What the fuck's wrong with us, Cassie?"

  Cassie knew there was no simple answer. If the answer was simple, there would have been two more men at the Thanksgiving table. "It's all gotten so damn hard."

  Cheyenne nodded. "It wasn't always this hard."

  To Cassie, it seemed a lifetime since dating was fun.

  Suddenly the waitress was at her elbow with a fresh pot. "More—grrr—coffee?" And without waiting for an answer, she topped up their cups. Cassie sipped her coffee. The second pot was stronger than the first. She added a little sugar and milk.

  "Your mom's date got on you pretty heavy. What was that all about?"

  "It's the holidays, Cassie. A lot of people are pissed that the town's not setting up the manger again this year."

  Cassie was surprised. "That decision was made more than a year ago . . . before you were even elected."

  "But it was never really settled." Cheyenne thought back to the ugly arguments during the mayoral campaign. "There are some folks in town think it's not enough to celebrate Christmas in their home and church. They think they have a right to celebrate Christmas at the entrance to the municipal building."

  "Is it gonna get nasty again this year?" Cassie wondered.

  "I hope not," said Cheyenne.

  Cassie took a sip of coffee and changed the subject. "Are things between your parents as bad as they look?"

  A cloud crossed Cheyenne's face. "Forty years Cassie. How do you fall out of love after forty years? It doesn't make sense."

  Cassie knew how hard the impending divorce would be for Cheyenne. They say divorce is hard on the kids. Even when the kid is nearly forty. "Maybe they just weren't happy, Chey. They deserve to be happy."

  Cheyenne wouldn't hear it. "You know my parents for twenty years Cassie. Did they seem unhappy to you?"

  Cassie was not in the mood to do this, but she owed her best friend an honest answer. "Maybe not unhappy, but lonely. Your mother seemed lonely, Chey."

  Cheyenne had not expected Cassie's answer. "Lonely? Really? I guess I need to think on that."

  Cheyenne sipped her coffee and nibbled on her bran muffin. "Maybe you're right, Cassie, but did she have to show up with Charles Meriwether, the third?"

  Cassie said, "Sometimes lonely people do desperate things, Chey."

  Chey wondered if Cassie was still talking about her mother. "Yeah, I guess."

  Cheyenne signaled for the check and got ready to leave. "I'd love to spend the day with you, Cassie. You know, kick back like in the old days, maybe watch a movie, but I've got to make an appearance at the football game." It would not be smart for the mayor to miss the annual Thanksgiving game. Doah Township took its high school football seriously. "Why don't you come with me, Cassie?"

  "I can't, Chey. I'm going to the mall."

  "Today, of all days? You hate to shop."

  Cassie shrugged. "I'm working on a story."

  "It's about time." Cheyenne sat back down at the table. "How are things at the magazine?"

  Cassie didn't have the energy to explain. "Same old."

  "You know, Cass, you never did tell me why Morris sold the magazine."

  "Morris said he was tired of the magazine business."

  Cheyenne heard the doubt in Cassie's voice. "But?"

  "But," Cassie continued, "Morris loved the magazine business."

  "So you think it was something else?"

  Cassie nodded. "Yeah."

  Sitting in her Mustang, Cassie switched off the CD player, saying good-bye to Thelonius Monk. She circled the overcrowded parking lot in search of a spot. Up one row and down the next, a long line of cars, jockeying for position, blocking passage, bending fenders. Does anyone over the age of fifteen really like coming to the mall? Finally, a spot opened in a location so remote Cassie was reminded of economy parking at Newark airport. She began the very long walk to the mall entrance.

  Cassie understood what Jack Cambrian wanted: a warm and fuzzy holiday tale about the Christmas shoppers, about peace on earth, good will toward men, with a special focus on stores that bought ads in his magazine. Cassie longed for the pre-Cambrian era at the magazine, when she got to write stories about more important subjects, things like space aliens and Siamese triplets. It's no wonder she wasn't going to the staff meetings.

  Taking her time as she strolled in the mall, Cassie allowed herself to experience the full insanity that was Black Friday. She felt like an old lady doing thirty in the fast lane, shoppers with their strollers filled with boxes and bags, their toddlers toddling to keep up, shoppers on her tail, pushing her to accelerate, honking for her to pull over and let them get by.

  Cassie was developing a feeling about the mall at Christmastime, about the shoppers making this holiday pilgrimage; she was feeling many things, but none of those feelings could honestly be described as warm and fuzzy.

  Cassie located an empty seat at the edge of the food court, a seat near the railing, overlooking Santa's Workshop in the lower vestibule, and sat down to make a few notes. From her seat up above the workshop, she watche
d the line of children snaking its way around the North Pole, boys and girls waiting for their turn with Santa Claus. Happy children, nervous children, eager children, terrified children, boys and girls waiting for the chance to share their secret gift wish with Santa, the meeting to be commemorated with an eight-by-ten digital photo costing their parents a mere $9.95. It was yet one more example of the cheesy commercialization of Christmas, but for just a brief moment, Cassie allowed herself to remember what it felt like to be a girl of ten, dressed in her best party frock, sitting on Santa's lap, asking for a Beatles album and a Cabbage Patch doll. Cassie spent the better part of an hour watching the children meet Santa. She watched Santa, the center of attention in his workshop, and then she watched him on a break, as he tried without success to blend in, to be just another overweight shopper in a red suit and white beard, but children followed wherever he might go, even to the very door of the men's room.

  The Mall of New Jersey, Director's Cut

  Oliver Berryhill loved his job as security at the Mall of New Jersey, loved strolling amongst the shoppers dressed in his neatly pressed brown Mall of New Jersey security uniform, carrying his official Mall of New Jersey walkie-talkie, munching on his Mall of New Jersey waffle fries and drinking Mall of New Jersey coffee. Mall security was a great job, even on Black Friday. Nothing ever happened, and Oliver liked it that way. It gave him plenty of time to think about his screenplay. Oliver was going to make movies. The security job was merely a way to pay the rent. Nothing ever happened other than the occasional shoplifter and even that, Oliver knew, was handled by store security. He was mall security.

  Oliver viewed the mall through an imaginary camera lens, using his job to practice framing his shots: The Mall of New Jersey, Director's Cut. The movie always started early in the morning, before the stores opened with senior citizen mall walkers making the circuit. Oliver liked to start with a tight shot of the walkers, typically two elderly women in their lavender Liz Claibornes, and then he would pull back on the shot, revealing the awakening mall around them, panning across the broad open space that would later be filled with shoppers.