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Morton’s Bakery on Third Street was part bakery and part convenience store. By now it was midmorning and the store was packed with people buying bagels, donuts, babkas, and cannoli, plus the odd emergency carton of milk, jar of peanut butter, or roll of toilet paper.
I was familiar with this bakery, but I didn’t often shop here. Tasty Pastry was a short walk from the bonds office on Hamilton, and it was my bakery of choice. There were three women working the counter at Morton’s, and a swarthy mustached guy was at the register. I didn’t know any of them. I would have liked to ask about the murdered women, but the store was too busy. Lula bought a bagel with veggie cream cheese and we left.
Next on the list was the liquor store. There were several people milling around debating the virtues of Grey Goose and Ketel One, pondering the price of Macallan single malt scotch, and filling their carts with cheap gin. I recognized the man at the checkout. He’d been my high school algebra teacher.
“Mr. Newcomb,” I said. “I didn’t know you worked here.”
“It’s a part-time job. Friday nights and all day Saturday. It’s a nice break to sell legal addictive depressants to adults after five days of staring into the blank faces of illegally anesthetized juveniles.”
“I guess I could see that,” I said, and I introduced him to Lula.
“Mr. Newcomb was my high school algebra teacher,” I said. “He gave me a C.”
“It was a gift,” Mr. Newcomb said.
“I didn’t have algebra when I went to school,” Lula said. “I studied beauty culture.”
“Did you get a job as a cosmetician when you graduated?” Mr. Newcomb asked.
“No. I went to work as a ’ho. It was one of them tradition things. All the women in my family’s ’hos. Except I’m not a ’ho no more. Well, actually I tried some ’hoing the other night, but I didn’t have no luck at it. The industry just isn’t what it used to be.”
“I understand this liquor store is part of the Senior Discount Club program,” I said to Mr. Newcomb.
“Some of our best customers belong to that program. They go to the cooking demonstrations next door, and then they come in here and load up on booze.”
“Did you know Rose Walchek?”
“She was just murdered, right? I didn’t know her, but she shopped here. I saw her picture in the paper, and I recognized her. She used to come in after the Saturday demonstration.”
“There were three other women murdered. Did they shop here too?”
“You’re talking about the women who were found in the Dumpsters? I’ve seen them here. Lois Fratelli was a regular. She mostly bought wine. Bitsy Muddle was another regular. She bought wine and an occasional bottle of gin.”
“What about Melvina Gillian?”
“She came in just before she was killed. She asked for help. She was having a dinner guest, and she didn’t know what to serve.”
“Do you remember what she got?”
“I suggested a pinot noir. It’s my go-to wine for beginners.”
“I bet she served that wine to the killer,” Lula said. “What kind of man comes and drinks your pinot noir, and then throws you in a Dumpster? This man has no manners.”
Mr. Newcomb and I agreed. The killer had no manners.
“Were the women alone? Or did they usually shop with a friend?” I asked Mr. Newcomb.
“Rose was alone, that I remember. And the Gillian woman was alone. I couldn’t really say for the others.”
Victory Hardware was next on the list. It was a hole-in-the-wall store that was crammed with lightbulbs, boxes of nails, shelf paper, claw hammers, electric screwdrivers, flashlights, Elmer’s Glue, birdseed, tape measures, batteries, cans of Raid, bait boxes, trash bags, toasters, sandpaper, Buck knives, various toilet parts, umbrellas, DustBusters, plungers, bags of charcoal, and replacement cords for Venetian blinds. The store was owned and run by Victor Birch. Victor was as old and cracked as the linoleum on the floor. Both Victor and the linoleum looked like they’d been around for two hundred years, but probably it was more like eighty. Victor had been on the job seven days a week for as long as I could remember, chain smoking and hacking and ranting about the way the world was going to hell in a handbasket. The store reeked of cigarette smoke, and yellow streaks of tar stained the walls and Victor’s fingers and teeth. Victor was both horrible and amazing. He was a living testament to the ravages of tobacco and the determination of the body and soul to survive under ugly conditions.
I knew the store by heart, but this was Lula’s first time inside.
“Whoa,” she said. “This is like walking into the lung cancer ride at the theme park from hell. Does anyone actually shop here?”
“Everyone shops here. Victor has washing machine parts that went out of stock twenty years ago. He’s got shower heads without water savers, incandescent lightbulbs, cheap rat poison, a machine that will duplicate keys that say do not duplicate, and he’s got a bottle of homemade hooch under the counter that he’ll share with you for free or sell to you for four dollars.”
“Does anyone work here besides him?”
