Dying in Style (33 page)

Another way to wait and save is to shop the last day of a sale. The store may give you an extra break to get the sale item off the shelf.

Undercover shopping:
When J-Lo wore her dress cut to there, no one noticed her handbag. But they did wonder about her other accessories. Where do you buy the right bra for a backless or frontless dress? Models make their foundations out of gaffer’s tape, but that’s hardly a romantic look. You can order Braza adhesive bra cups online. They are waterproofed and have air holes to prevent unfashionable sweating. Check out
www.brazabra.com
.

Best time to buy:
The monthly retail sale guides say Memorial Day weekend is a good time to look for low prices on summer bags. Fall and winter markdowns start in November. And wallet prices are lowest in December, because they’re often given as holiday gifts.

Bagging a bargain:
Can’t afford those fabulous Dooney & Bourke bowler bags? Wish you could own a classic Kate Spade? Resale shops in upscale neighborhoods are the best place to find deals on designer bags. I picked up an authentic Kate Spade purse for an amazing price at a South Beach resale shop.

Resale shops are also the ideal place to buy evening bags. Often, these are the least-used items in a woman’s wardrobe, so you’ll find bags that look nearly new.

Save yourself time and shoe leather and look for designer handbag bargains on eBay and other online auctions. eBay forbids the sale of fake designer goods. But in online auctions, watch for the weasel words “inspired by” Gucci or “replicas made of real leather.” Those are codes for “fake.”

One good site for bargains on new bags is
bluefly.com
.

Designer prices leave you dizzy?
Some shoppers keep their money in their pockets and buy the sleek Isaac Mizrahi collection at Target.

Old and New York:
Fashion mavens rave about Fine & Klein, 119 Orchard Street, on the Lower East Side. For some sixty years, it’s had handbags to die for. Customers from Paris to Beverly Hills buy their bags. Like many places in the neighborhood, Fine & Klein is closed Saturdays but open Sundays. Stop by the Lower East Side Tenement Museum while you’re in the area.

Tokio 7, 64 East 7th Street (between First and Second Avenue), may have some of the best designer resale bargains in Manhattan.

Don’t expect rock-bottom prices at the good resale shops. Classic Gucci, Vuitton and Chanel can still cost a couple hundred dollars. Know what the bag costs new and you’ll know what kind of a deal you’re getting.

Faking it:
In New York City, Canal Street is known as the place to buy fakes. Designer fakes are controversial. When you buy a good counterfeit bag, are you stealing the designer’s quality and talent? Or are designer prices the real crime? That’s for you to decide, but there is some evidence that buying fakes feeds gangs, crime syndicates, even terrorists.

Fakes used to be easy to spot. Nowadays, some are so good, you may not be able to tell them from the real thing. The bags have authentic-looking logos with the designer name spelled correctly—no Guchi purses. The clasps, straps and handles are sturdy and well made. The good fakes may even come with serial numbers on the inside tags.

Not sure if your bag is a fake? If you’re buying it from a street vendor, out of a car trunk, or in a bar after midnight, its origins are doubtful.

If the price is unbelievable, don’t believe it.

If your $25 Gucci bag has a “Made in China” label, it’s a safe bet you’re not buying a genuine designer purse.

Cruising for a bargain:
If you can’t make it to New York, St. Thomas in the U.S. Virgin Islands is the top-rated place to buy designer purses. This island’s capital, Charlotte Amalie, is packed with boutiques. Scuttlebutt says the best fakes are at the blue-plastic covered outdoor market by the harbor where the cruise ships dock.

Go shopping, not slumming:
There is no Down and Dirty Discount chain, but there are stores like them. Some well-heeled shoppers think it’s fun to go to there. Don’t do it. You can get robbed, car-jacked, or worse.

What are the telltale signs? If you see gang graffiti, trash-strewn parking lots, warnings that the lot is patrolled by security cameras, metal detectors and guards at the doors, this isn’t a shopping experience you want. If you are driving the most expensive car in the parking lot, leave immediately. These are the signs of a crime-plagued business.

Here’s the real shopping secret about these stores: You won’t find many bargains. The cost of crime is passed onto consumers in higher prices.

A traditional mystery has to have a cat. We have a cat shopping tip:
What do yacht owners, cat lovers and museums have in common? They all use Museum Wax. Museums use this clear wax to anchor art, glass and china on shelves, tables and pedestals. The wax, properly applied, does not mar many surfaces. It can be removed with fishing line or dental floss. Yacht owners use Museum Wax to keep their art, antiques and collectibles from sliding around in rough seas. Museum Wax is also popular in quake zones. Depending on the use or the surface, you may want to try Museum Putty and Museum Gel.

When I lost an art-glass lampshade to a leaping cat, the lamp store told me their cat-loving customers used Museum Wax. I waxed my antique china, glass and lamps, and I’ve had no more cat-tastrophes. When my cat climbed the seven-foot ficus tree in my living room and overturned it, I Museum Waxed that, too. (The tree, not the cat.)

If you don’t travel in yachting or arts circles, where do you buy these anchoring products?

Home Depot, Lowe’s, and Orchard Supply Hardware in the West Coast earthquake zones carry them. Online, try
www.museum3pack.com
. Or check your local art supply store.

PS: Museum Wax helps prevent disasters when you have rambunctious children, too.

Read on for a sneak preview of mystery
shopper Josie Marcus’s next dangerous
adventure, coming from Signet in
October 2006

“Josie, please, can I come in?” Josh was kissing her neck and her right ear.

Josie Marcus kissed him back. There was a deep silence, broken only by heavy breathing. “Sorry, Josh, it’s a school night,” she panted. “I have to be in by ten.”

Josh unbuttoned the tiny pearl buttons on her shirt, then kissed the tops of her breasts. “I’ll be very quiet,” he said.

More silence. More kissing. More panting.

“My mother’s upstairs,” Josie said breathlessly. “She’s got ears like a bat.”

“Come to my place,” Josh said. “There are no old bats. Just a big bed with fresh sheets and some very nice wine.” He flicked open the front closure on her bra and said, “Oh my God.”

Josie was glad the porch light was out. Her knees were weak. That must be why she was clinging to Josh. “I can’t,” she whispered frantically. “There’s my daughter, Amelia. I have to be home for her.” Josie refastened her bra.

“How about my car?” Josh said, kissing her again.

“It’s parked under a streetlight,” she gasped. When he kissed her that way, she could hardly stand up.

“We’ll have the windows steamed up in no time,” Josh said.

Josie almost said yes. Then she saw the curtains twitch at the house next door. Now she felt hot, but it was the heat of anger.

“I can’t,” she said. “Mrs. Mueller will see us.”

“Who,” he said between kisses, “is Mrs. Mueller?”

“The neighborhood gossip. She’ll tell Mom and my life will be hell.”

“Josie, how old are you?” Josh said.

“Thirty-one.”

“Why are we making out like horny teenagers on your front porch?”

“Aren’t you glad I make you feel young?” Josie pulled away and buttoned her blouse.

“That’s not how I feel,” Josh said. “I may never be able to straighten up again. We’re too old for this.”

“No, we’re exactly the right age,” Josie said. “If we were teenagers, we’d be boffing like crazy. Only adults have these problems.”

“Josie, please let me in.”

“Josh, I really want to, but I can’t.” Josie tucked in her blouse. “We should have thought of this earlier.”

“Are you kidding? It’s all I’ve thought about tonight. But I wanted to take you to dinner like a gentleman instead of just jumping your bones. Look where it got me.”

Josie laughed. Josh didn’t. “Who the hell is this Mrs. Mueller and why is she so important?” he asked.

Josie studied him in the starlight. Josh was four years younger, smart, and sizzling. Her friends wouldn’t believe she was telling him no. Josh had a sensitive poet’s face, a dangerous walk, and expert hands. He wanted to be a sci-fi writer, but right now, Josh was the best barista in Maplewood, producing sensational espressos and cappuccinos on his gleaming machine. When Josh was with Josie, he pulled out all the stops.

She kissed his nimble fingers and tried to explain the constraints on her life. “Mrs. Mueller rules the neighborhood,” Josie said. “She’s convinced I’m a slut, and I haven’t done anything but wear a couple of trampy outfits for my job. If I go to your car, she’ll have proof. She might even take pictures. She’ll tell my mother, who is also my landlord and my babysitter, and therefore has absolute power. If I let you inside, we’ll wake up Mom and I’ll never hear the end of it. Even if we don’t wake up Mom, Mrs. Mueller will be standing by with a stop-watch. She’ll watch the shadows on the window shades and listen for the bedsprings.”

“She sounds obsessed,” Josh said.

“Mrs. Mueller has had this thing about me ever since I was fifteen. She caught me smoking behind her garage and ratted me out to Mom. I got even by putting a bag of dog doo on her porch and setting fire to it. Mrs. Mueller stamped it out.”

Josh burst out laughing. “Mrs. Mueller fell for the flaming dog doo of death trick?”

“You may think it’s funny, but she never forgave me. My name is mud. No, it’s worse than mud.”

“Why do you care what she thinks?” Josh kissed her so hard that her last few wits nearly fled.

“I don’t,” Josie said. “But Mrs. Mueller runs all the major church committees and clubs in the neighborhood. She rules Mom’s social life. Mom thinks the sun rises and sets on that awful woman. To make it worse, Mrs. Mueller has this perfect daughter named Cheryl. She keeps rubbing Cheryl’s achievements in my mother’s face until Mom can hardly hold her head up.

“Josh, you’re single, so it’s hard to understand. If it was just me, I wouldn’t care, but Maplewood is like a small town. Gossip about me will hurt my mother and my daughter.”

“I do understand,” he said. “I just don’t like it.”

“Amelia has a sleepover soon. Maybe we can be together then,” Josie said.

Josh kissed her again. They stood hand in hand on Josie’s front porch, looking at the clear November night. The old sycamore trees rustled and the houses creaked in the warm wind. It was one of Saint Louis’s famous freaky weather switches. The night was a springlike sixty-five degrees when there should have been frost.

“Look,” he said. “A falling star. Make a wish.”

Josie saw the curtains twitch again.

“I wish Mrs. Mueller would get hers,” Josie said. “I wish she’d be so embarrassed she couldn’t hold her head up in Maplewood—no, the whole Saint Louis area. I wish she’d fall so low, she’d have to look up to me.”

Josie got her wish. Every word would come true.

And she would regret them all.

Mel held Josie’s right foot, slowly rubbing her arch with his thumb. His stroking fingers inched toward her toes. Josie tried not to flinch.

“Pink nail polish is so feminine,” Mel said softly.

“Thank you,” Josie said.

Yuck, she thought. I can’t yank my foot away from this pervert. I have to pretend to like this. I have a job to do. Some job—having my foot fondled by a freak. If my mother knew, she’d hit the roof. What if my daughter found out?

How is Amelia going to know? Josie’s sneaky side said. Are you going to tell her? God forbid your daughter should do this for a living.

Mel had stripped the pointy red Prada heel from Josie’s other foot and examined it closely. Was he looking at the stitching or sniffing her shoe? Josie’s stomach lurched.

Mel stopped stroking her stockinged foot and set it gently on his sloping footstool. She buried it in the soft padding. If only Josh were massaging her foot. If only Josie weren’t in the Soft Shoe, the most exclusive retro shoe shop in Saint Louis.

The Soft Shoe was a perfect copy of a 1950s women’s shoe store, with powder pink decor and salespeople who sat on old-fashioned slanted footstools, slipped off your shoes, then brought you stacks of styles to try on. The store was a shoe lover’s dream.

Mel was its nightmare. He gave Josie the creeps, and she couldn’t say why. He was slender and well dressed in a beautifully tailored gray suit. Maybe it was the pink carnation in his buttonhole. It made him look like an old-style gigolo. Mel wore too much cologne and his carefully cut hair was a little oily. That was it. Mel was oily. His manners, his hair, even his manicured hands were slightly oily, and he kept rubbing them.

“I see that you have an appreciation for quality,” Mel said. “Prada is well made. Sexy, too. Plenty of toe cleavage, which men adore. Smart women know that.”

Many smart women didn’t know—or care—about toe cleavage, the hollow between the big toe and second digit. But Mel’s hand grew moist as his eyes drifted toward the tiny valley between her toes. Josie wished she were wearing her grandmother’s black lace-up Enna Jetticks, which would conceal her feet completely. Except they might really excite Mel.

“You’re looking for a high heel?” Mel smiled. All the man needed was a pencil-thin mustache.

“Yes,” Josie said. “Something special.” She smiled back. She hoped she looked winsome, and not like her feet hurt.

“I know all the styles that please men and make women feel pretty,” Mel said.

Mel was the Soft Shoe’s top seller nationwide. But the company suspected Mel might love shoes a little too much. They were in dangerous territory. If they falsely accused Mel, he could sue Soft Shoe. Plus the company would lose its best salesman. But if Mel really was a foot fetishist and the company let him prey on customers, there would be a nasty scandal—and more lawsuits. That was why Soft Shoe had hired Josie’s company, Suttin Services, to mystery-shop the Saint Louis store and target Mel.