Dying in Style (3 page)

“You didn’t do it, did you?” At nine, Amelia was obsessed with right and wrong.

“I don’t change reports,” Josie said. “Not ever. Not for any reason, no matter how much trouble it causes. Right is right.”

Josie would remember her answer in the weeks to come, when three people were dead. If she hadn’t been so stubborn, if she’d softened her report a little, would any of them be alive today?

Fortunately, Amelia never asked her that question.

Chapter 2

Josie pulled the sheet out of the fax machine in her home office and read her secret assignment.

Danessa. Plaza Venetia. Between 10 and 10:30 A.M.
Danessa. The Mall at Covington. Between 11:30
A.M. and 12:30 P.M.
Danessa. The Shoppes at Greenhills. Between 1:30
and 2:30 P.M.
Shop two days in a row. Reverse times from bot-
tom to top on second day.

This must be important if her boss faxed it himself. Hush-hush, too. Otherwise Harry would make his secretary do it. Josie had never seen him put a finger on a fax machine. Josie was being sent to the Danessa stores at three of the plushest malls in St. Louis County, two days in a row. What was going on? She bet it was the Creshan deal. She checked the client information. Yep. That was it. The story had been all over the news for two days.

Danessa Celedine, a high-profile local beauty, created exquisite purses and sold them at her three stores, along with other designer handbags.

Danessa was the star of St. Louis social events. She showed up beautifully accessorized, accompanied by her Russian lover, Serge. Her purses could cost five thousand dollars or more, and had a star-studded clientele that reached far beyond the city. Reese Witherspoon had been photographed in
People
clutching a Danessa bag. Gwyneth Paltrow carried a silver Danessa purse to the Oscars.

Josie didn’t know anyone who opened her wallet for a five-thousand-dollar purse, but Danessa did. She understood the market so well, her stores were about to be sold to the Creshan Corporation. They planned to turn them into a national chain.

The conglomerate wanted to give Danessa Celedine a personal services contract to remain their spokeswoman. The
St. Louis City Gazette
said the contract was for fifty million.

What the papers—and Danessa—didn’t know was that the Creshan Corporation had hired Suttin Services, Josie’s company, to secretly shop Danessa before the deal was closed. Josie couldn’t suppress a little thrill. She had power. Fifty million dollars was riding on Josie from Maplewood. The fate of the richest woman in the city depended on a nobody from a nowhere section of town.

Josie knew which disguise she had to wear when she shopped Danessa. She would be a Fashion Victim. Ugh. It was her least favorite role. That disguise hurt from head to toe. Especially toe.

No pain, no paycheck, Josie told herself.

She shoved her plain brown bob under the hot, heavy blond wig. Then she carefully put on her makeup. Next she wiggled into control-top pantyhose. Double ugh.

Josie’s red Escada pantsuit was covered in gold braid and buttons. I look like a Michael Jackson impersonator, she thought.

For the final torture, Josie squeezed her feet into needle-nosed Prada slingbacks. She winced as her toes were squashed into an isosceles triangle. Lord, those shoes hurt, and the pain would only get worse. She’d be walking for miles on marble.

Josie looked at herself in her bedroom mirror.

Pretty damn good, she thought. Almost worth the pain. At thirty-one, she was still young and thin enough to pass for a trophy wife, if she remembered to swing her hips and flip her shoulder-length wig.

“Not bad,” she said out loud. “At least I won’t get thrown out of Plaza Venetia.”

“So how many careers are you ruining today, Josie?”

Josie jumped. Her mother, Jane Marcus, stood at the bedroom door, hands on her hips.

“Oh, Mom, I don’t ruin careers.”

“Yes, you do.” Jane set her jaw in the strong line that meant there was no arguing with her. “My friend Edie said so. She works at Bluestone’s. Not because she has to. Edie just needs to get out of the house.”

“Right,” Josie said, as she clipped on her gold earrings. “Every woman of sixty loves standing in a department store forty hours a week.”

Josie’s mother ignored her. “Edie knows for a fact that a sales associate at Bluestone’s was fired after the mystery shopper came through. Just because she said she was too busy to show her the cashmere sweaters. She was with Bluestone’s twenty-seven years and that’s the gratitude she got.”

“Mom, Mom,” Josie said, “you’re getting all worked up over nothing. I don’t mystery-shop for Bluestone’s.”

“You’re like the CIA, doing your dirty work in secret with no accountability.”

“That’s me, Mom. Josie Marcus, mall moll, licensed to kill. I have to get going or I’ll be late.”

Josie looked at her mother, her face set in its stubborn lines. Her heart melted. Jane was a fighter. She’d fought hard for Josie, but it was difficult for fighters to stop. They swung at everyone and everything.

“GBH, Mom,” she said.

“I don’t want to,” her mother said and stuck her lower lip out like Amelia.

Josie laughed. “You have to. Family rules.”

“GBH” stood for “Great Big Hug.” Since Josie was a little girl, if a family member said “GBH,” you had to give her a Great Big Hug. It was a sacred rule. GBH had stopped many a family fight.

Jane laughed, too. Josie held her mother, breathed in her shampoo and Estee Lauder bath powder, saw the age spots on her hands. “Thanks, Mom. I appreciate everything you do for me.”

Jane sighed. “I didn’t make all those sacrifices so you could work as a company spy.”

“My job is to help customers. I make sure they get proper service.”

“No good will come of this sneaking around,” her mother said. “I could get you a job at the bank, Josie. A nice job where I could be proud of you.”

Josie knew she couldn’t win this argument. “I need to see if Amelia has finished her breakfast. My first assignment is way out west. I have to leave early.”

“It’s not right to rush that child,” her mother said. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. Let her digest her food. I’ll get her to school on time. You go on.”

Josie could never stay mad at her mother for long. Jane’s generosity made their odd household work. They lived in her mother’s two-family flat. Her mother had the upstairs apartment and Josie and Amelia lived on the first floor.

“Thanks, Mom,” Josie said. “Bye, Amelia! Your lunch is in your backpack. I love you.” She ran to the kitchen to kiss her daughter, then bolted for her car.

Moms. You can’t live with them, and you can’t live without them, Josie thought. Her mother’s words still stung. The old regrets were roiling in her brain. I will not brood on this. I will live my life, not my mother’s.

Josie got into her anonymous gray Honda Accord—even she had trouble finding it in parking lots—and headed out Highway 40. Oops. I-64. Like most St. Louisans, Josie lived a little in the city’s glorious past. When something was renamed, she still used the old name. This made it difficult for outsiders to find anything, but St. Louis was an insider’s city.

Highway 40 was the gateway to the rich western suburbs and the three malls where she’d be shopping today. The malls were why she had squeezed into control-top pantyhose. Josie had her own theory: the more upscale the mall, the thinner the customers. Seventy-five percent of adult Americans might be overweight, but not at the high-priced malls. Fat was the ultimate social sin for the rich.

Her first stop was Plaza Venetia, “where the best people shop the best stores.”

Josie didn’t know if the people were the best, but they were definitely the whitest. Plaza Venetia was whiter than a Klan laundry. The mall looked like
Gone With the Wind
gone wild: massive rotundas with white pillars and pointless balconies, French doors that opened onto nothing, Palladian windows that overlooked parking lots.

Inside were one hundred exclusive shops and restaurants, including Danessa.

That’s when it hit Josie.

Her mother was a fervent fan of Danessa Celedine. What if Josie had to give Danessa a bad report? Thank God her work was confidential. Jane would never know her traitorous daughter was spying on her beloved Danessa.

Jane thought Danessa was St. Louis’s answer to Martha Stewart and Princess Di—before their disasters, of course. Danessa was known for her charity. Danessa won Jane’s undying devotion when she donated a thousand dollars to her church’s organ repair fund. After that, Jane had joined the growing choir that sang Danessa’s praises.

Danessa was headlined in every local newspaper and magazine, and some national ones, including the
New York Times
. Girls at Amelia’s school kept Danessa scrapbooks. Not her own daughter, thank God. Living with Jane’s hero worship was hard enough.

“So elegant,” Jane would sigh when she saw Danessa’s photo in the paper.

“So generous,” Jane said when the TV news showed Danessa signing a check for a children’s home.

“So intelligent,” Jane said when she read about the Creshan deal. “Danessa made something of herself.”

Josie heard the rest of that unspoken sentence: And you didn’t.

Take that, Mom, Josie thought. I’m sitting in judgment on the great Danessa. But she couldn’t say anything. She wouldn’t, either. Josie had her principles. Besides, she wasn’t expecting trouble. She’d never heard a whisper against Danessa. Then again, she’d never been in a Danessa store. She couldn’t afford to walk in the door.

Josie pulled into the Plaza Venetia parking lot and checked her watch: 10:02 A.M. She noted the time on the questionnaire, and the weather conditions: sunny and hot. In St. Louis, late September felt like August. Even the carefully tended mall grass was brown around the edges and the impatiens looked exhausted.

Then she checked the questions. Josie wasn’t allowed to take the questionnaire into the store, or even the mall. But it helped to review the questions.

Was the store clean and neat?

Were the displays well put together?

Were the counters, shelves and display cases free of dust and fingerprints?

Was the basket of Danessa’s autographed photos displayed in a prominent position?

Was the rest room tidy? Was there paper in the stalls and towel dispenser?

Were you greeted when you entered the store?

Was the greeting friendly?

Were the sales associates properly dressed?

Were the sales associates familiar with the merchandise? Could your sales associate answer these three questions about the product:

1. Designer or country of origin?

2. Price?

3. Special features?

When you made your purchase, did the sales associate check your driver’s license and ask for your phone number?

What was the name of your associate?

Did the sales associate thank you for shopping with Danessa?

All reasonable questions. Even her mom would agree.

Josie would also have to rate her shopping experience from Poor to Excellent, then write a short summary. She had twenty-five dollars to spend in each store.

What on earth can I buy at Danessa for that amount? she wondered. Certainly not a handbag. Well, she’d figure out something.

Josie vamped into Plaza Venetia on her high, sleek heels and felt instantly energized. Some upscale malls, like some casinos, pumped in oxygen. The Muzak was actually playing a tune from when she was a teenager. Josie got tired of the forty-year-old “most of us are dead” bands the boomers loved.

Plaza Venetia was done in tasteful shades of cream and beige that were constantly repainted. It was excessively clean. Venetian glass chandeliers, great iridescent saucers suspended by heavy silver chains, shimmered and sparkled in the light. Sound-absorbing jungles sprouted from marble planters. Fountains trickled quietly.

The Zen of shopping.

As she climbed the stairs, Josie contemplated the importance of the purse. The shoe may be a woman’s sexuality, but the purse is her self. Is she young and flirty? She has a small, sexy purse. Is she older and burdened with the cares of family life? She has a fat grandma purse, filled with every comfort from Band-Aids to baby pictures. Is she all business? Her Coach bag shows it. If she’s fashionable, she must decide whether Prada, Gucci or Kate Spade suits her style best.

Josie checked her watch again, then prepared to shop the target.

Danessa looked more like an art gallery than a purse store. There was none of the cheerful jumble of the discount stores. The walls were painted flat white. Hyper-expensive purses were exhibited on Lucite pedestals, like the artworks they were.

Josie admired the clever beading and cunning clasp of the evening purse in the window. She nearly choked on the discreet price tag—“5000” was all it said, but that said plenty. The purse was this moment’s color: citrus green. What happened next year, when it wasn’t the color? Did you give an outdated purse that cost five grand to charity or hold a funeral for it?

An autographed photo of Reese Witherspoon carrying her Danessa bag hung over that exact same model. Another photo showed Madonna schlepping a Louis Vuitton Takashi Murakami bag. The bag was on a Lucite pedestal. Josie thought it bore an unfortunate resemblance to the matronly purse her mom bought at Marshalls.

Danessa’s own line of belts and purses all had the distinctive diamond D clasp. Josie examined them and found some of Danessa’s purses carelessly constructed for such expensive merchandise. One had a poorly sewn strap that looked like it would break easily. The beading on an evening purse was dull. Cheap plastic beads, Josie thought, sold at glass-bead prices. A third leather purse had crooked stitching. She peeked inside the purse. The tag said MADE IN ITALY, home of fine leatherwork. I don’t think so. Well, it wasn’t her job to rate the merchandise.

A purse shaped like a Chinese takeout carton sat on another Lucite pedestal. Josie choked when she saw the “3900” price tag. She also noticed something odd about the Lucite stand. It was almost gray with fingerprints, especially at toddler level. And what was that pink lump on the side? She bent forward for a closer look. It was a wad of bubble gum.