It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Murder Page 4

  "So whaddya think?" asked the second pair of loafers.

  The man on the bed cursed again. "I think I'm getting too old for this."

  The second pair of loafers was already leaving the bedroom. "We oughta be getting out of here."

  "Gimme a minute to catch my breath."

  Possession of the Sugar Cookie

  Santa stood in the main pedestrian walkway on the second floor at the Mall of New Jersey peering into the jewelry store. The mall was crowded with shoppers, women loaded down with gift bags holding onto children, teenagers looking for inexpensive Christmas presents for their girlfriends or boyfriends. Inside the store, Judy was showing watches to a balding businessman in a blue sport coat. She looked up and waved to Santa, smiling. He felt his cheeks grow red, matching the Santa suit. When Judy finished with the watches, she stepped out from behind the counter and joined Santa in front of the store.

  "Hi, Santa."

  "Hi, Judy."

  It pleased Judy that Santa remembered her name. "Have you decided yet on a gift for Mrs. Claus?"

  "Not yet."

  Judy smiled at him. "When you do, remember to come back and ask for me." Judy gave Santa a quick peck on the cheek and went back inside the jewelry store.

  He wondered how he was going to steal enough inventory to satisfy the Macks. Hell, he wondered how he would boost even a single piece of jewelry.

  Santa failed to notice the commotion until it was upon him, a young woman with two children and three large bags full of Christmas presents, the two children, a boy of perhaps six and his sister of eight, fighting over a sugar cookie, screaming at each other and at their mother.

  When children got out of control at Santa's Workshop, it was the elves who were paid to deal with the commotion. Here in the middle of the mall, Santa stood scant feet from the screaming children, embarrassed and unsure what to do. Finally, Mother put her packages down and took possession of the sugar cookie. Dragging her children behind her, she marched to the nearest trash receptacle, disposing of the cookie, all the while lecturing her children about the consequences of fighting. As Santa watched the mother approach the trash receptacle across the pedestrian walkway, he realized that her shopping bags were left unattended. He was about to yell to the woman, alerting her to the danger of leaving her bags in the mall like that, and then it hit him. She had left her bags unattended in the mall. Santa quickly looked around for witnesses, but everyone's eyes were following the procession to the trash can. Santa pulled one small box from the top of the bag and slid the fancy package under his red Santa jacket. Moving quickly, Santa made his way through the mall. He was well down the hallway, home free, when he felt the box slip out from under his jacket and hit the floor.

  Someone approached rapidly from his rear. "Santa, wait up." Santa turned in time to see a mall security guard hustling to catch up. "You dropped something, Santa." The security bent down to retrieve the small package and handed it to Santa. "Merry Christmas, Santa."

  "Merry Christmas . . ." Santa looked at the nametag on the guard's uniform. ". . . Oliver."

  South of Trenton and West of the Atlantic Ocean

  Where am I? wondered Morris, sitting behind the wheel of his Buick, lost someplace south of Trenton and west of the Atlantic Ocean. He had spent twenty years pursuing stories for the magazine and knew his way around Jersey better than most natives. But in his panicked escape from the rest stop, Morris had driven blindly, heading ever deeper into the Pine Barrens, first on the parkway, then on the county roads, on local paved roads, dirt roads and gravel paths, until even these ancient trails had petered out. The digital clock on his dashboard was blinking nearly midnight. His fuel gauge was blinking nearly empty. Orion was blinking in the southern sky. Morris thought he might be somewhere near Batsto. Damn.

  It had seemed like a good idea to disappear for a few days in Atlantic City. He wasn't trying to skip out, he told himself, just to play a few hands of poker and give himself a little time to figure things out. If he were lucky enough to win a big pot, he might even be in a position to pay off his debt. Meanwhile, he hoped that Cassie could help him by checking some information about the two men who were looking for him. The Macks had not as yet confronted him directly, but Morris had seen them nosing around the neighborhood. It would not be long before these two rough-hewn gentlemen in custom-tailored suits would come knocking at his door. So he arranged to meet Cassie at the rest stop, where he would be one more anonymous traveler stopping to use the toilet and grab a bite to eat.

  Morris arrived at the rest area at 8:45; he bought a grande cup of coffee and found a seat where he could keep an eye on the entrance. Cassie was prompt about her appointments, rarely early, but never late. When Cassie didn't arrive at 9:05, Morris allowed that she was probably sitting in traffic. At 9:15, he told himself he was letting his paranoia get the better of him. At 9:25, when he saw two large men standing at the northbound entrance to the rest area, it didn't matter to Morris that they bore only a slight resemblance to the Macks. It's not paranoia, he told himself, when someone's really out to get you.

  While the double-wide gentlemen clogged the northbound doorway, Morris slipped out the southbound exit and made his way quickly to his Buick. He pulled onto the parkway heading south, his eyes fixed on the rear-view mirror. He saw no evidence that he was being followed and interpreted that lack of evidence as proof of the stealth of his pursuers. At the next exit, Morris jumped off the parkway. No one followed him, but Morris could feel their presence. Damn. Those guys are good.

  Morris realized he should call Cassie. Without slowing down, he reached across the seat, opened the glove compartment and rummaged around for his cell phone, swerving dangerously onto the shoulder. With his left hand, he steered the Buick back onto the county road, while with his right hand he began pulling objects from the glove compartment. He found maps and credit card slips. He found a missing pair of sunglasses and several unpaid parking tickets. He found a bag of stale Halloween candies and a flyer for Chinese take-out. But he didn't find his cell phone. Damn.

  Morris continued his flight, focused on what he was driving from, not what he was driving toward, until he discovered that what he was driving toward was an abandoned path deep in the Pine Barrens, too overgrown to go forward, too narrow to turn the car around. Annoyed at his own stupidity, he put the Buick in reverse, gunning the engine. For a moment, the wheels spun madly and then the car lurched backwards.

  Morris felt the wheel hit the spike, and then he heard the sickening pop. The right rear tire went flat. Morris thought he was going to hurl. He opened his window, filling his lungs with fresh piney air, forcing himself to take deep, even breaths. Morris sat in the Buick trying to make sense of his predicament.

  He wondered if it would be safe trying to change the flat tire in the dark. He was no longer worried about the Macks. As soon as he heard the pop of the tire, he understood that the Macks were still at the Atlantic City rest stop—if it even had been the Macks he spotted in the doorway—or, by now, at Caesar's shooting craps. The only place the chase happened was in his imagination. So he was not worried, for the moment, about the Macks.

  And he was not worried about the Jersey Devil. Despite the numerous articles that Cassie had written and he had published, despite the photographs and the eye-witness accounts, despite the magazine's loyal fan base, Morris understood that there was no such thing as the Jersey Devil.

  No, what Morris was worried about were the nasty, creepy, slimy creatures that would get on and get under his clothes. Morris shuddered at the thought of the bugs that made their home in the Pine Barrens. He rolled up his window and tried not to think about the bugs.

  And there was a practical consideration as well. Morris lacked confidence in his ability to change the flat tire in the dark Pine Barrens at night. If he tried, he understood that he might lose the lug nuts in the underbrush; he might damage the car's underbody, or worse yet, the donut spare. And he would surely cause himself bodily injury in the attempt.

  He had begun the evening hoping to find a place to hide out temporarily. Looking around him at the pygmy pines crowding in around him, Morris had to admit he had found a pretty good hiding place. He would spend the night (what was left of it) napping in his Buick at the tail end of an abandoned trail, somewhere south of Trenton and west of the Atlantic Ocean.

  A Good Place

  Morris counted the minutes until . . . sleep . . . morning . . . insanity? He was beyond caring, sitting in the Buick, trying to make himself sleep, and every time he nodded off, hitting his head on the steering wheel. At some point that night Morris knew he must have fallen asleep; otherwise how explain the dream teeming with bugs? As the eastern sky revealed the first traces of morning, Morris congratulated himself for surviving. He pulled the owner's manual from the glove compartment and identified the storage location for the donut spare and the jack. Morris popped the trunk and walked around to the back of the car. He pulled up on the dirty gray "floor" of the trunk. In the wheel well that was revealed, Morris found, as promised, the Buick's spare tire. He lifted the donut spare from the trunk. I can do this, Morris told himself.

  I can't do this. Morris stared into the trunk of the car. He studied the diagram in the owner's manual. He re-checked the contents of the trunk. The donut spare would do him no good. The jack was missing.

  And so it was, in the faint pre-dawn light, Morris put the engine in reverse and began ever-so-slowly backing up, the Buick limping along on three tires and a rim, retracing his steps, backwards along the abandoned trail, until he found a small dirt road. It was not easy, but he jockeyed the Buick and, after several attempts, managed to turn the car, the Buick finally facing forward on this very small dirt road. He was still lost, somewhere deep in the woods, still riding on a badly damaged rim, still tired and hungry and cold, and as he turned the car around he was momentarily discomfited by the dead deer, but he was, for the first time that morning, facing forward and, after a long night of failure, he lifted an imaginary glass to his lips to toast this small success.

  Two hours later, when the ground turned from dirt and rock to pavement, he lifted a second imaginary glass in triumph. This place, which had seemed so strange in the dark of night, in the adrenaline rush of flight, was, at mid-morning, peaceful and vaguely familiar. Morris was not far from town. What town he was not certain, but he was certain that it was near. His thoughts turned to hot coffee and an even hotter shower.

  He passed a fish pond on his right, deserted on this chilly day at the end of November and imagined summertime, the pond rimmed with young men and boys, their poles dangling in the pond. And then, just ahead on his left, he spotted a small motel on the outskirts of Woodbine. He pulled his car to a stop, on three tires and one very badly damaged rim, in the parking lot just beyond the small motel sign. Morris dragged his tired body from the Buick and walked into the lobby where he was greeted by the manager, Beejit Bhait.

  "You will be needing a room, good sir?"

  "Yes." Morris nodded. "I will be needing a room. Do you have a vacancy?"

  "I have twelve very nice cabins. I have twelve vacancies." Beejit Bhait frowned. "We are too far from the parkway."

  Morris looked at the small Hindu shrine behind the reception desk. "You're not from around here, are you?"

  "No, good sir. I am not originally from here." He paused. "But I am very happy here in this place. It is a good place."

  Morris hoped he wasn't prying, but he was curious about this Hindu gentleman who had settled in Woodbine. "Did you come here by yourself?"

  "Oh, no, sir," Mr. Beejit Bhait explained. "I came here with my mother."

  On the wall behind the reception desk, twelve keys hung from a small corkboard. Beejit Bhait reached for the key to number three before re-considering and handing Morris the key to cabin one.

  Morris went outside to retrieve an overnight bag from the Buick and let himself into cabin one.

  It was a small cabin, smelling of wood paneling and cardamom seeds. There was a bed, a bureau, a chair, and a television. At the front of the cabin, a window looked out onto the parking lot. Morris peered through the window at his wounded Buick. There was a bathroom at the rear of the cabin . . . a toilet, a wash basin and a tub. There was a small window in the bathroom, which opened onto an endless field of wildflowers and weeds.

  Morris turned on the shower. The water pressure met with his approval. He climbed out of his rumpled clothes and into the cascading shower. Pulling the shower curtain closed, the universe narrowed to this small white tub, this chrome shower head, this torrent of steaming hot water. For the moment Morris forgot about the rest stop, the pine forest, the flat tire, the . . . Morris let his mind go blank, let the hot water beat down on him, and then . . .

  Bam! A sickening thud sent shudders through Morris's still shaken spirit. What the fu . . . Cautiously Morris peeked around the shower curtain, seeing nothing. Cautiously he stepped out of the shower, alarmed and confused. He noticed the enormous mark on the window, the avian-shaped mark. A shore bird apparently had slammed into the bathroom window. Morris exhaled. Then Morris looked out the window. Where before he had seen a field of wildflowers, now he could see only shore birds, thousands of shore birds, filling every inch of the field. Morris quickly toweled off, got dressed, and placed a telephone call.

  "Hi, Cassie. It's me."

  "Morris!" Cassie was relieved to hear his voice. "Where are you?"

  "I'm in Woodbine."

  "Are you okay, Morris?"

  "I'm tired. I'm hungry. My car's messed up. I'm in Woodbine. For God's sake, do I sound okay?" Morris realized his voice was getting way too loud. "I'm sorry, Cassie. Look, can you just give me a ride? I'll explain everything when you get here."

  "I'll be there in an hour. Where in hell . . . ? I'm sorry Morris, where in Woodbine are you?"

  "Bhait's Motel." Morris hung up the phone and went looking for Beejit Bhait.

  "Can you recommend someplace nearby where I can get lunch?" Morris asked the manager.

  "My cousin Gupta has a very fine restaurant just up the street." Mr. Bhait pointed past the shore birds a few hundred yards to the north. "Please to tell him that you are my guest."

  "Thank you." Morris paused. "Sure are a lot of birds out there."

  Beejit Bhait nodded. "Yes, good sir."

  Morris walked up the street, finding it hard to breathe, his eyes focused only on the restaurant, birds watching his progress sitting on the telephone lines that ran along both sides of the street. He knew he was being foolish, but Morris felt a keen sense of relief upon reaching the restaurant.

  He sat on a stool at the counter and ordered the blue plate special—lamb sagwaala, biryani rice and chapatis—and lingered over a cup of strong Indian coffee. It seemed hardly possible, but while Morris was at the luncheonette, even more birds had arrived. As he paid the bill, Morris pointed to the scene outside.

  "Sure are a lot of birds out there."

  Gupta smiled. "In my country, we say that the birds bring good fortune."

  "I hope you're right," said Morris. His shirt was wet with perspiration, from curry or from anxiety, he could not be certain. Morris pushed open the door and exited the luncheonette.

  Deep's Quick Lube

  When Morris returned to the Bhait's Motel, Cassie was sitting in the parking lot, in her Mustang, staring at Morris's Buick and listening to Lightnin' Hopkins sing "Automobile Blues." She hopped from the car, running to meet Morris, giving him a big hug.

  "Geez Morris. You're soaking wet."

  Morris smiled. "Tell me about it." He unlocked cabin one, holding the door open for Cassie. "Thanks for coming."

  Cassie looked around at the generic motel room. "What the hell is going on, Morris?"

  What the hell is going on? Morris shared only as much as he knew for certain. "A couple of goons are looking for me."

  "Goons?"

  Morris nodded. "Yeah. Two big guys. Huge, really."

  "What kind of shoes do they wear?"

  Cassie's question took Morris by surprise. "Huh?"

  "Shoes, Morris. What kind of shoes?"

  "Shit, Cassie. I wasn't watching their feet." Morris thought for a minute. "Why do you ask?"

  Cassie remembered her view from under the bed. "I saw them at your house this morning."

  Morris couldn't figure out which question he wanted to ask first. "You were at my house this morning?"

  Cassie nodded. "When you didn't meet me last night . . . well, to tell you the truth, Morris, I was worried about you."

  Cassie was worried about him. Morris felt the blood rush to his cheeks. And despite his own worry and fatigue, despite all the craziness, he felt the blood rush to another place as well. "And you say you saw them at my house?"

  "Yeah. They were looking for you."

  Morris thought about the two men at his house. "When I asked you to come down here, I wanted you to give me a ride home. I can't go home now. What am I going to do Cassie?"

  Cassie took a closer look at Morris's cabin. "I guess you better stay here for a couple of days."

  Morris hated himself for what he was about to say, hated himself for being too weak to stop himself. "I've got an idea. Why don't you stay here with me, Cassie? Take a little vacation in Woodbine?"

  She wanted to be angry with Morris. He had no right to ask, not after all they'd been through. "You know I can't do that, Morris." She kissed him lightly on the cheek. "But I guess I could spend the afternoon." And then, to make sure there was no misunderstanding, she added "Let's go see about getting your car fixed."

  Morris and Cassie found Beejit in the motel office. Beejit looked up from his paperwork. "And how was lunch?"

  Morris was pleased to tell Beejit that his cousin's lamb sagwaala was delicious. "I need to get my car repaired. Do you know someone?"