Laura Caldwell - Red Blooded Murder

I sliced open the first box and went to work on the contents-bustiers in three different colors, pink, white, black. Reflexively, I thought of how Sam would love me in the black one. Then I shook the thought away. Immediately, Theo popped into my mind. Had everything we’d shared been some kind of game to him, some sick way to get back at Jane? Nope, I wasn’t going to go there, either.

I turned back to the bustiers, steaming and folding them, making the handwritten price tags and attaching them. But the whole time, my eyes kept dodging to the locked box up on the shelf, where Josie kept the thongs.

Once I got the bustiers steamed, I opened the second box of stock-push-up bras with blue gingham ribbons threaded through the top.

I went out into the front of the store. “Josie,” I said, holding aloft one of the bras. “Do these need to be steamed?”

I knew the answer. According to Josie, everything needed to be steamed, if only to loosen up the fabric and make it softer. But I needed an excuse to see if her keys were in plain view.

They were. Right next to her at the register.

“Yes, of course.” She began lecturing me about the importance of steaming, while I nodded and nodded. It was both tragic and fascinating that this stuff meant so much to Josie.

I couldn’t think how to get her away from the register or the keys, so I went into the back room and kept attacking the stock, shooting glances up at the metal box every minute or so.

At ten, the store opened, and Josie ordered me to the front. It was a sunny, crisp spring day, everyone giddy with the weather, and the place was soon crowded. I opened the door at one point, ostensibly to let in some fresh air, but really I wanted to check on Mayburn. And just as he’d said, a white van was parked across the street with the words Midwest Gas stenciled on the side in red. The window of the driver’s seat slid down a few inches. Mayburn gave me a quick nod, then the window slid back up.

The hours passed quickly, me manning the front, Josie ringing up customers and showing them to the dressing room.

At about three o’clock two women walked in. “Welcome to the Fig Leaf,” I said, then went back to refolding pajamas that had been messed up by someone’s toddler.

I could feel one of the women looking at me, just staring. She whispered something to her friend, who turned to look at me. I met their eyes and smiled. “Can I help you find anything?”

“No,” the first woman said. “We’re just trying to figure out where we’ve seen you. On TV maybe?”

I shot a look over my shoulder at Josie. Thankfully, she was behind the counter with a small line of people in front of her. I peered through the front window and saw Mayburn’s van, still parked across the street.

What to do? What to do?

I decided to go for the blatant lie. “Not me,” I said. “But I’ve heard there’s some woman who looks like me…” I trailed off and tried to keep my head down, staring at the table of pajamas with an intensity I usually reserved for court appearances.

“Yeah, that girl who killed the newscaster!” the woman said. “That’s who you look like!”

“Oh, you’re right,” her friend said. “Exactly!”

“She didn’t kill the newscaster,” I objected.

“I heard she did,” said the first women.

Another woman, wearing a spring sundress, came forward. “Are you talking about Jane Augustine’s murder?”

“Yeah.”

“Isabel McNeil,” the woman in the dress confirmed. “That’s the woman who they think did it.”

I froze. I started blushing. I could feel the pulse in my neck rat-a-tat-tat. “She did not do it.”

“She took over her job,” the woman said.

“And she’s the only one who was supposed to be with Jane Augustine that afternoon,” the first woman added.

“Jane was supposed to be with a friend,” I said. “Not m…” I started to say not me but I caught myself. Everyone looked at me funny.

Another glance over my shoulder. Josie was done ringing up the sales and was now headed toward us. I had to get out of this conversation. Fast.

“Ladies, we’ve got some great underwear on sale over there.” I pointed to the side of the store, then spun around and started walking. “Be right back,” I said to Josie. “Bathroom.” I patted my stomach vaguely and made a face as if to imply female difficulties or a tapeworm complication.

Josie frowned but gave me a quick nod.

I hurried to the back. As I passed the counter, I saw her keys. Right there by the register. I threw a look behind me and saw Josie was talking to the ladies. Was she talking about the redhead on TV who’d supposedly killed Jane Augustine? The one I looked like? Should I pull the plug now, run out the door to Mayburn’s van?

My eyes darted to the keys again. I thought of how much Mayburn had helped me over the last six months. Now it was my turn to help him again on one of his cases. If I could get in the metal box right now, Josie probably wouldn’t leave the front anytime soon. But if she saw me grabbing the keys, she’d lose it.

I veered toward the register and stopped behind it, pretending to move around the gift boxes. I looked at Josie and she gave me a What are you doing? frown, then glanced toward the back room as if to say, Are you going or not?

I nodded, smiled. “Be right back,” I mouthed. I started moving in the direction of the storeroom, but I kept my eyes on Josie, and as soon as she turned back to the women, I shot my arm out and snatched the keys.

By the time I got in the back room, I was shaking from anticipation. My eyes swung around wildly. Where was that step stool that Josie had used to reach the locked box? I dodged from room to room, searching for it, finally finding it in a closet.

I dragged the stool and placed it right under the box. Before I climbed up, I stuck my head out of the back room. Josie was still in front, but she was backing up as she talked to a customer, headed for the register, where she’d probably see that her keys were gone.

Go, I told myself. Now or never.

I climbed on to the step stool. The keys jingled as I tried to stick one, then another and another in the small slot in the metal box.

“Damn it,” I muttered. Why did Josie have so many freaking keys?

I held my breath for a second, listening for Josie’s approaching footsteps. But instead I heard the sound of the register ringing a sale.

I stared at the key ring. She had a monogrammed brass plate hanging from the ring and about nine keys. I studied them, looking for the smallest one, looking at the front plate of the metal box to see if any of them seemed to match. Maybe I should just grab the whole box and take off with it?

I pushed up on the box. It was heavier than I thought. And it was already bad enough I was trying to steal a single thong.

“C’mon,” I muttered, my hands trembling as I tried another key and another one.

The last key slid in and turned smoothly.

“I might have a 34B in the back,” I heard Josie say from the front of the store. She was talking loud, giving me a signal to get my ass back out there, I could tell. Was she heading here at the same time?

Hurry, Izzy.

I opened it and reached inside. I pulled out a few thong boxes, each of them gray, like the one I already had and the one I’d bought for Maggie. I shoved them back and rummaged around inside. This time I yanked out one of the black ones.

“Yes!” I whispered.

I locked the box, jumped down from the step stool and stashed the stool back in the closet.

“Just one moment,” I heard Josie saying in her First Lady voice, then the sound of her clicking heels coming closer and closer to the back room.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I muttered, not even trying for one of my swear replacements. She was steps away, and here I was with her keys and a black-boxed thong. My purse was in one of the other storerooms. I didn’t have time to reach it and stash the thong inside before she would be here.