3 Loosey Goosey (17 page)

“Spanking?” I leaned to look around a shelf at the three women who were now gathered around one of the books Rhonda had given them.

“You know, spanking.” She made a motion of slapping her own behind with her hand. Her voice lowered. “And handcuffs and tickling and everything you wouldn’t expect them to be into. Ever since that
Shades
book came out, bondage is all the rage.”

“Oh.” This conversation was quickly getting almost as disturbing as the picture of me with my naked protesting brother. “They look... old. Like my mother’s age.”

Rhonda moved a stack of books from one table to another. “She’s probably read it too.”

I sucked in a breath. This was not something I needed to think about.

“Here.” I shoved the pictures that I’d printed out into her face.

She laughed, at me I was sure, but took the pages and settled onto a stool that set behind the counter to check them over.

“Do you know any of them?” I’d circled the people in question before leaving my office.

“Well...” She looked over her shoulder toward the back part of her store where the bondage babes were still gathered. “This is one of the women here right now. From what they’ve said, I’ve gathered that they’re here for the beef conference—or their husbands are.”

“Oh.” As I was pondering if this was useful information or just filler, the three women came strolling around the corner, giggling.

I couldn’t look at any of them now without seeing my mother. Embarrassed, I dropped my gaze and pretended interest in
A History of Barbed Wire
. Who knew spiked wire could be such a game changer?

The woman Rhonda had pointed out saw me looking at the book. “I’m sorry. I thought I’d put that behind the counter.” Her gaze turned suspicious.

I glanced with what I’m sure appeared to be guilt from the book to her to Rhonda then back at her. “No, sorry. It was sitting here...” Unable to think of anything else to say to cover my apparent book-thieving ways, I held the volume out to her.

She snatched the book from my hand and held it pressed against her chest. “My husband collects barbed wire.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Her eyes narrowed as if she were ready for an insult.

“I have a board next door with five strands mounted on it.” I’d bought the board at a farm sale three years ago and given up selling it six months later.

“Lucy owns the antique shop next door. She probably has all kinds of things beef related,” Rhonda announced, cheerful as a bell.

“Oh.” The woman’s demeanor changed from suspicious to enthusiastic. “That would be great. It’s so hard to find presents for my husband, and our anniversary is coming up next month.”

She set the book on the counter and then turned suddenly as if a thought had just occurred to her. “Oh, my God, did you hear about Leslie?”

“Leslie Danes?” one of the other women replied.

“Yes. Richard gave her a week at a spa for their anniversary.”

“A week alone?”

Interestingly, all three women seemed to see that as a bonus rather than a drawback.

“That’s why she isn’t here and why he didn’t go to dinner with us the other night... when that chef died.” She looked at Rhonda and me with that air of superiority that a lot of people get from having been so close to news.

One of the other women held up her hands. “You mean she gave up all this... for a week at a spa?”

The three of them tittered.

I looked at Rhonda to see if she was insulted by their obvious slam. True to her laid-back self, she just smiled along with them.

I sighed. I really needed to find bitchier friends.

Chapter 15

I returned to Dusty Deals a few minutes later and walked into a bevy of bitchy.

Betty and Phyllis stood in the middle of the store, their hands wrapped around one of Tiffany’s red sculptures.

Betty tugged the free-form shape toward her. “This is not staying in this shop.”

“This is staying in this shop.” Phyllis returned the move, jerking the sculpture back toward her chest.

“No.”

“Yes.”

They went back and forth, pulling and tugging, while Kiska and Pauline watched fascinated from the sidelines.

Betty gained ground, pushing up against a display of antique restaurant creamers and knocking me out of my stupor.

“Stop!” I held up both hands.

The dog and the goose turned to look at me. The women kept arguing.

“Seriously... stop!” I walked over and wrapped my arms around the sculpture.

They each gave it another few tugs, jerking me back and forth, before dropping their holds and stepping back with scowls on their faces.

I held the sculpture against my chest as if it might ward off the negative energy flowing off them and crashing somewhere around the middle of my head.

I glanced around the room. “Where is everything else?” The place was bedlam. Chairs were sitting on tables, dishes were on the floor and rugs were rolled into scrolls, but I didn’t see any more of the items that I knew Everett should have delivered by now.

“In the alley.” Betty spoke without removing her gaze from Phyllis.

I felt as if I was standing between two growling, territorial dogs. I glanced around, wishing for a hose.

Of course, a wet Betty would be more like a wet hen. I didn’t think it would do anything to calm her temper.

I held up my hands again. This time in a sign of defeat.

“I don’t have time to sort this out now.” I also had no idea
how
to sort this out.

Phyllis, after giving Betty one long deprecating look, turned to face me. “I have an idea.”

Pauline hissed. I looked at the goose. Check that. Betty hissed.

Feeling like a first grade teacher, I gave Betty a fleeting frown and addressed Phyllis, “Yes?”

“A sell-off.” Phyllis smiled. It was a prim, knowing smile all too fitting of my first grade analogy with Phyllis being the teacher’s pet and Betty being... me.

“A sell-off,” Betty scoffed.

Still in teacher’s pet mode, Phyllis turned on her toes to face her rival. “I can understand why the idea would intimidate you, but—”

Betty puffed up bigger than a blow-dried Malamute wearing a goose-down coat. “You want a rumble?”

The use of the word rumble worried me a bit. “Now, I don’t think—”

Phyllis stepped forward, her green leather heels making little tapping noises on the bare concrete floor. “I suppose that’s your way of saying you accept the challenge.”

“Let’s jam.” Betty leaned forward, her polished red nails clicking against each other as if she was counting off the ways she would do Phyllis in.

And maybe she was. I couldn’t be completely sure about Betty.

Either way, I had no more time or energy to worry about them. I left them to draw up the rules of their “rumble” and went to dig up the piece of wood with the barbed wire. Luckily, Betty and Phyllis hadn’t gotten to the back of the store yet in their reorganization efforts.

I balanced the wood on the top of my head and wove my way through the disaster that was my store.

The bell dinged and in walked the three S and M fanatics. They made it three feet before a pile of rugs blocked their path.

Immediately, two of them turned, ready to run for the door. The third, she of the barbed-wire-loving husband, stood uncertainly, still, but ready to bolt.

My eyes narrowed, I looked at my warring sales team. Neither noticed. Both were already scrambling over whatever merchandise stood in their way, making a beeline for the close-to-escaping customers.

Within seconds, both women had new best friends. I just hoped these new “friends” didn’t kill each other or the innocent beef rancher spouses in their efforts to win their sell off.

Unable to watch whatever might happen next, I lowered the board to the ground and did my best imitation of a game show assistant. “This is what I was telling you about.”

My customer, distracted by her companions being dragged into the bowels of my disorganized store, hesitated. Then, apparently deciding they weren’t at any immediate risk, she turned her attention to the board.

While she ran her finger over each piece and commented on the manner in which the strands had been mounted, I thought of ways to bring up the dinner at Tiffany’s and what, if anything, she knew that might help clear Ben.

I didn’t have to. She brought it up instead.

Her finger stilled less than a millimeter from one barbed wire point. “You were at the opening too, weren’t you? You threw a dish on our table.”

“Uh, yeah.” I stuttered. “I was there, I mean, but I don’t remember throwing a dish.” Eyes wide, I blinked. “Someone did that?”

One of her eyes closed halfway. I recognized the look as what my father would call the hairy eyeball.

I babbled on. “There was a lot of confusion there. What with the protesters.” I shook my head. So terrible, those dirty protesters.

“You were talking to one.” She stood up, leaving the board on the floor. “And that goose.”

“I wasn’t talking to the goose,” I objected.

Pauline, apparently recognizing that she had become the topic of conversation, honked.

My customer jumped. “It’s here.” Her hand went to her throat, and I sighed.

Really, I should have known better. I would never unload this board of twisted metal.

But, to my surprise, the woman glanced around and then leaned forward. “Did you know the chef too? She stopped by your table, didn’t she?”

A little unsettled that she had noted so much about my activities that night, I hesitated.

Apparently taking my pause as reluctance, she waved her hand in the air. “I only ask because... well...” She looked around again.

Every fiber of my being told me something good was coming. I nodded my head and tried to look as encouraging as possible.

Sensing a kindred gossip, she moved even closer. “You haven’t heard anything about her and her landlord, have you?”

Her landlord. Richard Danes. The underwear. His willingness to furnish her apartment on his dime to her hideous taste. It all added up.

“I... I’ve met him.”

She nodded. “With that chef?”

“No, not until after she died, but...” I motioned to the surrounding mess. “A lot of these things came from the building. Some from the restaurant and some from her apartment.”

“Really?” Her demeanor lifted, and she spun around as if seeing my merchandise in an entirely new light.

I knew then that letting slip that I’d also found a pair of men’s boxers in Tiffany’s dresser would almost guarantee me a nice sale. But that was beneath me...

I walked to the counter and dug Tiffany’s sparkly cow key ring out of the register. “Did you see her key chain?”

The little cow flashed in the light, like a tiny diamond-encrusted disco ball.

The woman grabbed the key chain from my hand. “Leslie has one just like this,” she exclaimed. Her face was a mix of horror and glee. Horror, I guessed, that her suspicions had been proven right. Glee for the same reason.

She rolled the cow over her palm as if she might see some detail that disproved what she was thinking. After a moment, she handed it back to me, shaking her head.

“He bought two,” she commented. This seemed to disgust her, maybe more than the thought that Danes was cheating on his wife/ her friend.

“Tacky,” I agreed.

Her lips pursed, and we shared a moment of mutual disgust for any man who would be so tasteless as to give his wife and mistress the same bauble.

“Makes me all the more grateful for my Alfred,” she said after a moment.

Realizing Alfred must be he of the barbed wire fixation, I dove on the renewed opportunity of making a sale and dragged the board over to the counter where she stood. “I know I appreciate my boyfriend every day.” This was, of course, an overstatement, but not totally. I did appreciate him... most of the time.

She smiled. “The man you were with that night. Does he work for the police?” She moved smoothly into a conversation that was designed to dig more information out of me on everything from what Peter knew about Tiffany’s death, to how long we had been dating, to why I was still unmarried.

The unmarried part hit a little too close to something my mother would ask. I forced my lips into a smile and worked my hardest to get the conversation off of me and back onto something I wanted to know about.

“I heard you say next door that you had a friend who went to a spa. I’ve been thinking of taking a break myself. Do you know where she went?”

“Leslie?” I could see thoughts moving through her head, probably her sifting through our conversation to see if I had made the connection that this friend was also the wife of the cheater. After a second, she seemed to either decide that I hadn’t or that it didn’t matter. She gave me the name of the spa and added. “I can’t say if it is any good though. I’ve never been there.”

Because her husband hadn’t needed to ship her off while he hooked up with a hottie.

We were both thinking it, but neither of us said it. We did have some class.

Her friends returned, both laden down with tchotchkes. One held a brass spittoon, two branding irons, and a collection of cow bells. The other had a ceramic lamp with a tambourine shade, a red tulip-shaped blown glass vase, and one of Tiffany’s hideous red sculptures.

“Uh, everyone ready?” I asked, trying not to glance at Betty or Phyllis, who had walked up behind the women and were now occupied with scowling at each other.

Realizing time was limited before there was another explosion, I trotted behind the counter and rang everyone up as quickly as I could. Total sales, including the board of barbed wire, were over $800, with Phyllis taking the moment with $500 worth of the sales.

She beamed, Betty glared, and I hurried the women out of the shop as quickly as I could.

Then, head low, I scurried into my office and locked the door behind me.

I turned around to find a malamute and a goose staring me down.

“You’re both smarter than I give you credit,” I acknowledged. I pressed my ear up against the door to check on the hell that surely was breaking loose in the main shop.