Shop Till You Drop (11 page)

About three o’clock, there was a sudden lull in the stream of shoppers. Helen and Christina leaned against the counters for a rest. Tara boldly stretched out on the black loveseat. She knew the rule that sales associates had to remain standing, but Tara also knew she’d be a customer again. The owner wouldn’t dare reprimand her.

When Tara was lounging out of earshot, Christina said, “I want to take my special evening purses with me. They’re not store stock. If anyone asks for one while I’m gone, tell her I’ll be back next Friday.”

“Fine,” Helen said. She was relieved the purses would be out of the store. She’d been wondering what to do about them. She was not going to sell pills for Christina.

Christina went back to pack up the purses. She returned with a white box and a pink bag. “I’m going to run them out to my car on my break,” she said, patting the box. “But I like this one so much, I’m keeping it for myself.” From a nest of hot-pink tissue paper in the bag, she pulled out a teardrop-shaped purse made of gold mesh.

“That looks like real gold,” Helen said.

“It is,” Christina said. “This purse is from the early 1940s. Isn’t it a beauty? Look at the clasp. Those are real diamonds.”

Helen knew better than to open the purse.

Christina was barely back from her break when Brittney was at the door. Helen buzzed her in, and Brittney thanked her in that whispery voice.

Helen could not tell—who could?—if Brittney was angry or happy. But she seemed anxious to talk to Christina. The two women took Evian water and settled into the loveseats for a chat. Tara was busy accessorizing a customer. Helen tidied the shelves under the cash register.

When Helen carried an extra box of padded hangers to the back room, she heard what the two women were talking about: the best way to get even with Joe, Christina’s ex-almost fiancé. They’d been having this same conversation since the split, but Christina was still furious.

“Every time I think about what that man did to me, I could murder him,” Christina said, raising her voice. Helen nearly dropped the box of hangers. Christina must have seen her reaction, because the two women retired to the dressing room for a private talk. Christina didn’t even bother to take in any clothes to make it look like business.

Helen listened at the door. If Christina was plotting a murder, Helen was going to do everything she could to prevent it. Christina kept her voice low, and Brittney always talked in a whisper, so it was hard to hear what they said. But Helen heard this much:

“Do you know what I spend every month?” Brittney said, her voice soft as a sigh. She sounded angry, or maybe she was pleading.

“I need more,” Christina said. “They’re raising my condo fees.”

“I don’t have more,” Brittney said, the whisper becoming a hiss. “I’m not made out of money.”

Then the door chimed, and Helen had to answer it. A woman with extravagant apricot hair wanted to look at evening gowns. By the time Helen had sold her a sleek new design, Brittney was gone.

Helen was not sure what she had overheard. Was Christina reduced to begging for money? There was no time to consider the problem. Suddenly, the store was flooded with customers. They ran her ragged, demanding ever smaller sizes and blaming Helen if they couldn’t fit into them. Helen moved in the zenlike state achieved only during the most hectic and miserable moments in retail. While she waited on the rude women, she used most of her mind to daydream about Cal. She was seeing him tonight at seven. She couldn’t wait. They hadn’t had a chance to talk since their Cap’s date last Saturday.

As the unsatisfied women ordered her about, Helen began to paint herself a rosy future with the attractive Canadian. A woman could do worse than spend the rest of her life with a man who told funny stories, she thought, putting blue skies and pink clouds in the picture.

And though it was way too early to think this way, Cal might be marriage material. Helen was not ready to buy a wedding dress or anything. That was silly. But she could sense something solid about Cal, something possible. She wondered if the U.S. courts would track her all the way to Canada.

Suddenly, the flood of customers dried up, leaving behind their wreckage: piles of abandoned clothes and accessories, tangles of hangers, carpets littered with tissue paper, straight pins, and extra buttons. Someone had smeared red lipstick on a white blouse. A shirt reeked of perfume.

Helen was wearily hanging everything up when the phone rang. It was Gilbert Roget, the store owner, calling from Canada. “Is Christina there?” he said.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Roget. She’s busy with a customer. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Yes, could you ask her to check an International FedEx shipping bill?” he said. He gave her the number. “Some customer in Brazil is complaining about the high price of a shipment to his wife, Bianca. He called me. Could Christina look into it?”

“Of course,” Helen said. “I’ll make sure she takes care of it today.”

Especially since Christina caused the problem, Helen thought. She’s not leaving me to deal with that mess.

Christina was furious. She called Mr. Roget and told him it was a clerical error. But the wily businessman demanded to know who had prepared the FedEx package. Christina had to admit she had. She promised to refund the disputed portion to the unhappy Brazilian. Helen knew the money would have to come from Christina herself.

That’s probably why Christina did not even try to be conciliatory when Lauren’s lawyer husband called about his wife’s shoplifting bill.

“I think I was charged too much,” he said. “My wife didn’t bring home the blouse and the belt that are on the bill.”

“I can’t keep track of her purchases once she leaves the store,” Christina said. “Maybe she sold them.”

“Maybe I didn’t buy them,” he said.

“Look, buddy, just be glad I didn’t have her skinny ass thrown in jail,” Christina said, and slammed down the phone.

“Jesus! How much worse can this day get?” Christina asked, fleeing to the back room.

Her question was answered when the pill-popping Venetia came into the store. She was angry and jittery. Venetia demanded to see Christina immediately. Her shrill voice was like an ice pick in Helen’s ear. Tara ran back to get her, while Helen kept an eye on Venetia.

Helen could hardly stand to be near the woman. Venetia bounced back and forth on the balls of her feet, picking at invisible lint on her Yves Saint Laurent. Pick. Pick. Pick. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Jitter. Pick. Bounce. The whites of Venetia’s eyes were bright yellow, the same color as the trim on her suit.

She’s definitely strung-out, Helen thought. I’m glad I don’t have to deal with her.

When Christina bustled up, Venetia threw the black beaded purse at her. Christina ducked, and it flew past her and skidded across the counter. Christina’s hat was knocked sideways.

The delicate little purse looked like it had been mauled by bears. The beading was torn, the silver clasp broken, and the pink silk lining shredded.

“It didn’t last,” Venetia said in her high voice, and Helen knew she was not talking about the silk lining.

“I’m sorry you’re not happy, but that is not my problem,” Christina said smoothly.

“Take it back,” Venetia said, her eyes wild, her voice nearly a shriek. “Take it back, and give me back my money. All my money. My husband is going through my accounts.”

“I cannot do that,” Christina said. “There are no returns on special items.”

“I want my money!” Venetia screamed.

“I’m sorry. You’ll have to leave,” Christina said in a firm voice. Tara gasped, as if Christina had produced a flaming sword. She knew Venetia was being barred from Juliana’s forever.

“You’ll be sorry. You’ll be very sorry,” Venetia said, as the green door closed on her for the last time.

“Is this a full moon or what?” Christina said to Helen. “Crazy complaints must come in threes, like deaths.” She looked in the mirror, and straightened her hat to cover her swollen cheek. “Is it six o’clock yet?”

“No, but why don’t you leave early?” Helen said. “We’ll close up.”

“I’m outta here,” Christina said. “I’ll see you next Friday. You and Tara can hold the fort.”

Helen was glad to see Christina go. She watched her slim figure disappear down Las Olas, melting into the tropical twilight.

Helen stripped off her blouse and switched on the TV. She wanted to catch the news while she dressed for her date with Cal. As she unzipped her skirt, she caught the words “carjacking of a twenty-three-year-old Plantation woman.”

Helen stared at the screen in horror as the announcer said, “Desiree Easlee, who lived in a gated community in suburban Plantation, was shot and killed this morning in an attempted carjacking.”

Desiree? Niki’s rival was dead? No, it couldn’t be. She wasn’t the only woman in Florida named Desiree. Helen’s skirt slid unnoticed to the floor.

“Miss Easlee was engaged to be married to T-shirt entrepreneur James “Jimmy the Shirt” Dellamondo. The wedding was supposed to take place in Belize next Saturday,” the announcer said, and Helen’s last hope was as dead as Desiree.

On the screen was a photo of a luscious-lipped blonde in a tight black dress with a zipper up the front. In the next shot, Desiree was in a loose-fitting black body bag with a zipper up the front. Desiree’s enormous breasts created a mountain in the body bag.

A dead photogenic bride made good television, and the station had put extra effort into reporting this story. The announcer said the security guard did not have any record of a strange car being admitted to the gated community, and the police had no leads.

No leads, Helen thought. She felt sick and dizzy and guilty. Her head throbbed and pounded with the refrain: Desiree was dead. Desiree was dead. And she did nothing to stop it. Now she had a face to put with her crime of cowardice. An innocent young woman was dead a week before her wedding.

I could give the police a lead. I could tell them who set this up. I know who arranged the murder of Desiree. And why.

On the television, someone was saying that gated communities gave a false sense of security to residents. The people who lived there did not take the same precautions as residents who lived on public streets. A neighbor complained to the TV reporter that the security guard was an old man who frequently slept while on duty.

Another woman, who identified herself as a doctor’s wife, defended the gated community. “We have the guard for prestige, not security,” the woman said.

Helen could not figure out why a dozing senior citizen was prestigious. But it wasn’t fair that the poor gate guard was going to be the scapegoat for this crime. Helen knew this wasn’t a carjacking gone wrong. It was a murder for hire. Helen had heard the whole thing being planned and done nothing.

But what could she have told the police? See, officer, there’s this woman named Desiree. I don’t know her last name or where she lives, but Niki wants her dead before she marries her boyfriend. Niki went to the manager of a dress shop to hire a hit man. At least I think that’s what was going on. I couldn’t hear them talking too clearly. And I never saw any money change hands.

Helen would have looked like a fool. But Desiree might still be alive.

Now Desiree was dead. Before her wedding to Jimmy the T-shirt baron, just like Niki wanted. Christina had arranged the murder, but there was no way Helen could prove it.

She had a date with Cal in five minutes. She’d have to cancel. But what could she say? This woman I never met was killed, Cal. I should have stopped it, although I don’t know how.

There was nothing Helen could have done differently. There was nothing she could do now. She had to pull herself together and quit standing there like a statue wearing an underwire bra.

Helen pulled on some clothes. She had no idea what she put on. Only after she locked her front door did she notice she was wearing cutoffs and a Tweety Bird T-shirt. Well, Catfish Dewey’s was supposed to be casual.

She was almost to the pool when she heard Cal say, “Don’t you look beautiful?” He whistled appreciatively.

Unfortunately, Cal was whistling at Peggy, not Helen. Peggy was wearing a long, low-cut black dress that showed off her elegant figure and dark red hair. The dress was bare on one shoulder. Peggy didn’t have her parrot.

“Where’s Pete?” Helen asked.

“He’s home alone for the evening. I’m going to the opera, and
Manon
is not a sing-along. There’s my ride. Gotta run,” Peggy said, as a silver Lexus pulled into the Coronado parking lot.

Peggy didn’t run. She glided to the car like a runway model. A man in impeccable eveningwear greeted Peggy warmly and opened her door. He was theatrically handsome, with burnished blond hair hanging over one eye and cheekbones that looked like they’d been chiseled by a sculptor. Helen thought Peggy’s escort could be a Calvin Klein model or a member of the Hitler Youth.