It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Murder Read online

  And then there were the scenes of morning managers preparing to open their shops, checking the inventory, fixing the displays, sipping their morning cups of coffee.

  Oliver Berryhill framed dozens of shots every day and remembered each and every shot.

  On Black Friday, Oliver's camera lens moved effortlessly from wide shots of Santa's Workshop to tight shots of the children's faces as they climbed up on Santa's lap. He filmed Santa on his break, eating pizza in the food court, browsing through magazines in the bookstore, shopping for blue jeans at the Gap. Oliver Berryhill's camera lens followed Santa to the door of the men's room, but not inside. Oliver Berryhill didn't make that kind of movie.

  Oliver loved picking out a shopper and filming her day at the mall, but Oliver had no interest in documenting the life of yet another frustrated south Jersey housewife. While she picked out shoes or flatware or panties, Oliver filled in the most extraordinary back-story. Seen through his eyes, the typical mall shopper had a secret life as a supermodel or a CIA operative or a porn star.

  Back at the food court, through his camera lens, Oliver spied a good-looking woman with dirty-blond hair. Oliver pegged her for her late thirties. She was thin enough for real life, but a couple of pounds too heavy for the movies. In the midst of the Black Friday bustle, this woman was detached, like Oliver, a spectator to the mall madness. Oliver tried, without success, to imagine her back-story.

  An older man approached the lady in the food court. In Oliver's movie, he was a film noir private eye, or a racketeer, waving his cigar like a piece. The Mall of New Jersey was a no-smoking mall, but the cigar didn't appear to Oliver to be lit. He made no move to intervene, allowing the imaginary film to roll.

  "I was hoping to find you here, O'Malley."

  Cassie looked up from her note pad. "Mr. Cambrian." She nodded her head in greeting. "I must say I'm surprised to find you at the mall."

  Mr. Cambrian smiled and reached for an empty chair. "May I join you?"

  "Of course." Cassie pushed her note papers to one side, clearing a spot at the table.

  They sat at the edge of the food court in silence, watching the holiday traffic swirling below, forming eddies around Santa's Workshop. Finally, Jack Cambrian spoke up.

  "I think that's the story," he said pointing to the children waiting to meet Santa.

  "I guess." Cassie was unconvinced.

  "No, really. Christmas as seen through the eyes of a child." Mr. Cambrian paused. "Maybe it's not the most original idea. But I'd like you to give it a try. Spend a couple of weeks observing Santa's Workshop. Somewhere on that line of children, there's a story. Okay O'Malley?"

  "Okay, Mr. Cambrian. Maybe I'll find a space alien."

  Jack Cambrian laughed. "Maybe you will, O'Malley. Maybe you will."

  White Gold

  Cassie spent the next week at the Mall of New Jersey, and she saw many things. Or more to the point, she saw one thing many times, as one by one each little boy or girl climbed on Santa's lap and revealed a young heart's desires, but she did not find a space alien and she did not find a story. Gradually as she watched, Cassie's focus shifted from the endless boys and girls to the ever-patient Santa. The first few kids were probably fun, Cassie decided, maybe even the first few hundred. But in that one week, Cassie estimated that thousands of children had sat on Santa's lap, some giggling, some arguing, some crying, a few, in the excitement of the moment, wetting themselves and Santa. The job can't possibly pay enough, she told herself. What would bring a man to seek employment as a department store Santa? Cassie studied Santa's routine.

  Each morning, Santa would arrive at the mall in full costume. Cassie would catch him at the entrance, before the customers began to arrive, puffing quietly on a Newport, adjusting his padded stomach, talking to himself.

  "Mornin', Santa," she would say as she approached him at the entrance. The first morning, Santa turned away, like a taxicab flashing its off-duty sign. The second morning, Santa grunted a terse "hello." Cassie lit a cigarette and stood alongside Santa in the chill morning air.

  On the third morning, Cassie could tell as she approached the mall entrance that Santa eagerly awaited her arrival. "Can I bum a cig?" asked Santa.

  Cassie took out a pack of Salems, lit one for Santa and one for herself. "I'm Cassie," she said and she handed him the cigarette.

  "I'm Tommy," he replied. "Thanks for the cigarette."

  "So what's it like being Santa Claus?" Cassie wondered aloud.

  "It's a job," explained Tommy, and he went inside to start his shift. "A pretty crappy job."

  Cassie found "her" table at the edge of the food court and studied the routine in Santa's Workshop. From his raised platform in the center of the workshop, Santa greeted the children, while elves in tights directed traffic. The photographer snapped pictures, and the photographer's assistant slipped each digital photo into its cardboard picture frame and collected the cash. Cassie watched, impressed by the elvish choreography. Each child received a precious moment to speak with Santa, and then another moment for the photo. As soon as the photo was snapped, an elf helped the child climb down while Mom paid the bill. Meanwhile, a second elf prepared the next child for the encounter with Santa, and a third elf directed the rest of the line to be ready. In such fashion, every minute brought another child onto Santa's lap. Cassie did some quick arithmetic. At a child a minute, Santa saw sixty children an hour. Taking Santa's breaks into account, Cassie figured he saw some five hundred kids each day. In a five-day work week, Cassie estimated he saw two thousand kids. In the four weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas, Cassie figured some eight thousand children climbed up on Santa's lap.

  "What's it like being Santa?" Cassie understood Tommy's answer.

  Perhaps the worst parts of the job were the breaks—children waiting on line for their encounter with Santa, nearing the head of the line, only to find their wait indefinitely extended when an elf hooked a velveteen rope across the entrance to Santa's Workshop and hung a sign from the rope. The sign read Santa will return in fifteen minutes.

  Children who were too young to read understood what the sign meant. It meant that their Moms were about to start yelling at Santa's elves. Meanwhile another line of children snaked along behind Santa, following his every move as Santa tried unsuccessfully to slip away quietly for a well-deserved break.

  On break, surrounded by the little children, Santa stared in the window of the jewelry store, admiring the gold and diamond bracelets, trying out excuses for the Macks. He was not exactly opposed to petty thievery to square his debt, but Tommy could not imagine how he was supposed to move around surreptitiously, unnoticed in his red Santa suit. When a cute salesgirl waved to him from inside the shop, Tommy wanted to sneak off and hide, but Santa went inside to say hello. "Ho! Ho! Ho!"

  "And a ho, ho, ho to you too, Santa." The salesgirl smiled at Santa. "Does Santa need to do a little Christmas shopping? Can I show you anything?"

  Tommy stared at the salesgirl's chest. He knew exactly what the salesgirl could show him and nearly said so, but Santa was discreet. "I'm looking for a bracelet."

  "For Mrs. Claus?"

  "Huh?" Tommy was distracted. "Yes, of course . . . Mrs. Claus."

  The salesgirl unlocked the display case and began picking out bracelets. "White gold is very popular this year."

  Like many a Christmas shopper, Santa was ambivalent. The salesgirl patiently pulled one bracelet after another from the display case, offering Santa a short course on bracelets. "This one is called a bangle bracelet," she said, picking up a simple gold bracelet. "This one is called twisted rope," she explained pointing to the interwoven strands of gold. "And this one is what we call Venetian link." Santa hardly listened as he cased the shop, looking for a weakness in the security.

  "If you're on a tight budget, we have some very fine fourteen-carat pieces, but Mrs. Claus will be happier with an eighteen-carat bracelet. For beauty and durability, you can't do better than eighteen carat."

  Santa immediately recognized an important difference between the eighteen-carat and the fourteen-carat pieces. Only the eighteen-carat pieces were kept in a locked display case. Santa thanked the salesgirl for her assistance and promised to think it over.

  "I hope you'll come back when you're ready to buy. Ask for Judy. I'm here Tuesday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday." Judy handed him her card.

  Tommy took the card and smiled. "I'm Santa. I'm here every day until Christmas."

  An Elderly Gentleman Adjusting his Sansabelts

  Cassie popped a CD in the player and drove home from the mall on back roads through the Pine Barrens, the smell of pine mixing with the sounds of McCoy Tyner on piano. When she pulled into the condo lot, the parking spots were all taken, even her reserved space. Cassie created a spot along the edge of the property, careful to leave enough room for cars to get by. Party sounds drifted over from the adjoining unit. Cassie let herself into her empty condo and poured herself a Tullamore Dew.

  She logged onto the computer and stared at the blank screen. Cassie tried to remember the last good story she'd written. It was, she realized, the last story she'd written for Morris before he sold the magazine. She told Jack Cambrian it was writer's block. She told him it was normal, that every writer went through these dry spells, but they both knew otherwise. Cassie logged off the computer and turned on the television.

  Flipping through the channels, Cassie stumbled on the town council meeting, which was carried on local access cable. Before Cheyenne was elected, back when "Big Jim" had been Mayor of Doah, nothing was more entertaining than a meeting of the town council. Cassie was proud of Cheyenne's performance as mayor, but she missed the fistfights that had been the hallmark of Big Jim's administration.

  "My friends," Cheyenne Harbro
ugh was saying, "I am pleased to report to you on the progress at the old Norris Farms site."

  "Point of order, Mayor Harbrough." Councilwoman Becht interrupted, in the clipped tones of one who believed that the wrong woman was sitting in the mayor's chair. "I may be foolish to raise this issue again, but I am distressed that, for the second year in a row, the town will not be setting up a display here at the municipal building."

  Cheyenne Harbrough looked to the township attorney for help. "That issue is not on the council's agenda, Madam Mayor," he said.

  Watching at home, Cassie was disappointed that there would not be any vitriol at the council meeting. It might be bad for the town, but it made for riveting television.

  "If I may continue," said Cheyenne, "the clean-up is currently ahead of schedule and under budget. I believe that we can . . ." But before Cassie could learn more about the mayor's plans for the restored property at the south end of town, she was pulled away from the television by her telephone.

  "Hi Cassie."

  "Morris! How are you?" It had been months since Cassie and Morris last spoke. "Where are you?"

  "I'm good," he said, but he didn't sound good. Cassie thought Morris sounded nervous.

  "Really, Morris? Is everything okay?"

  The telephone line went quiet for a moment before Morris responded. "I need to talk to you about something."

  "Sure, Morris. Go ahead."

  "No, Cassie. Not on the telephone." It was not like Morris to be so mysterious. "Can we meet?"

  "What's going on, Morris? Are you okay?"

  "Do you know the rest stop on the parkway?" asked Morris. "The one just outside of Atlantic City?"

  "Yeah."

  "Can you be there in an hour?"

  Cassie looked at her watch. It was ten-of-eight. "I'll be there by nine," she said.

  At nine o'clock, Cassie was sitting in her Mustang in a stopped line of traffic on the Garden State Parkway, several miles from her destination. She tried calling Morris on his cell, but he wasn't picking up. She waited ten minutes and tried again.

  "Dammit Morris. Pick up."

  It was nine-thirty when Cassie finally pulled her Mustang into a parking space at the Atlantic City rest stop. She hurried inside, searching for Morris. There was the usual assortment of parkway travelers, businessmen heading home after a very long day, salesmen returning from their last sales call, families on vacation, moms and dads stretching their legs, kids grateful to be out of the car, and senior citizens by the dozens stepping carefully off tour busses, stopping to use the restrooms before descending on the casinos.

  Morris, however, was nowhere to be found. He was not at Burger King. He was not at Starbucks. He was not in the gift shop. Cassie startled an elderly gentleman adjusting his sansabelts as he exited the men's room and sent him back inside to look for Morris. He was not in the men's room.

  Cassie bought a diet soda and sat down to wait. She checked her watch. It was nine forty-five. At ten-fifteen, she tried Morris on his cell, but there was still no answer. At ten-thirty she had a cup of coffee and dialed Morris's number one more time. At eleven-fifteen, she walked to her car. It was nearly midnight when she let herself back into her condo. Her answering machine was beeping, but when she tried to retrieve the message, the tape was blank.

  Two Large Feet in Fine Italian Shoes

  Cassie slept poorly, Morris slipping in and out of her dreams, always on the edge, just beyond explanation. In the morning, she drove to his four-bedroom home in the quiet residential town just north of the Pine Barrens proper. Cassie had known Morris for nearly two decades, considered him a close friend, but had never in all those years, even one time, been to his home. Even with her handy internet directions, she had trouble locating the housing development. She passed the turn three times before identifying the right turn with the missing street sign. Once she made the turn, she had no trouble finding the four-bedroom center hall colonial with cedar shingles. It was much too large for a single man to call home, but Morris's name was clearly marked on the mailbox.

  Cassie slowly drove past the house. Yesterday's newspaper sat in the otherwise empty driveway. She had the impression that the house was empty. Cassie continued past the house, parking her Mustang around the corner and walking back to 3386 Peachtree Drive. Cassie rang the doorbell. She did not expect, and was therefore not surprised, when no one answered the door. She jiggled the doorknob, but the door was locked. She walked around the house, but the sliding glass door in back was also locked. She noticed a window cracked open on the second floor, and for a moment, Cassie remembered what is was like to be fifteen and grounded, sneaking in and out of her second floor bedroom window. But Cassie was not fifteen, and the second floor window was not a viable option.

  She noticed the keypad by the garage. It should not be difficult to guess the code, Cassie realized. Morris's computer password, after all, was "password." Cassie tried 1-2-3-4, but the garage door did not open. She tried his house number 3-3-8-6, but the garage door did not budge. She stared at the keypad. A small piece of masking tape was stuck to the inside cover. On the masking tape, 1-4-4-8. Cassie punched in the numbers and laughed. The garage door opened. Cassie let herself in.

  The first floor of Morris's home included a sitting room, formal dining room, eat-in kitchen with large center island, and two guest bathrooms. Cassie went through the rooms seeking clues to Morris's sudden disappearance. But walking through the house, she felt as though she were touring a "model home" with its faux domesticity. Even in the kitchen, Cassie had the odd sensation that the groceries were merely props. It would be difficult to say whether Morris had recently disappeared in a house that bore little evidence that it had ever actually been inhabited.

  Cassie climbed the stairs to the second floor. Halfway up the stairs, she stumbled over a pile of magazines. Catching herself, she climbed to the landing at the top of the stairs. The sterile atmosphere of the first floor was quickly forgotten in the jumbled mess of stuff that was the second floor of Morris's home. There were piles of newspapers and magazines, CDs and books, videos, photos and correspondence. There were clothes draped on chairs and candy bar wrappers on the bed. Cassie picked her way carefully through the master bedroom.

  There was a small pile of magazines on the nightstand next to the bed, a couple of recent issues of the Jersey Knews, Jack Cambrian's name splashed loudly on the masthead, but mostly older issues, from before Morris sold, back when the magazine was fun, Cassie thought. Cassie leafed through the pile, stopping to read one of her own stories, one of her favorites, about the Siamese triplets.

  Cassie forgot about Morris, her thoughts turning to the summer of 1905 and the amazing Ederle sisters. So she was not really paying attention when she first heard the door being pushed open down below. But when she heard a footfall on the stairs, Cassie was fully, scarily, in the moment. Instinctively she understood it was not Morris. She glanced around the room, looking for a place to hide. She had few choices . . . the closet, the master bath, the bed. Cassie looked again at the open window, wishing she were fifteen, and then she got down on the floor, shimmying under the bed, counting on the bed skirt to keep her hidden.

  From under the bed, Cassie listened as the visitor made slow progress on the stairs. Halfway up the stairs, the footsteps stopped; she heard a man's voice cursing before the footsteps resumed climbing. Peeking under the bed skirt, Cassie glimpsed two large feet in fine Italian shoes shuffling into the bedroom. Her heart was pounding. Cassie pulled back farther under the bed, sure that the intruder could hear her. He shuffled around the room, grunting and cursing. He sat down suddenly, the bed creaking under the weight, the box spring banging down on Cassie. Cassie held her breath and listened as the intruder gasped for air, trying to catch his breath.

  Cassie heard a second set of footsteps coming up the stairs. She saw the second pair of Italian loafers. She heard him ask, "Did you find anything?"

  The man on the bed cursed. "No."