Diane Davidson - Chopping Spree

The second clipping was another cropped article, this one entitled Teen Held in Shopliftings. Of course I knew all about Teddy Fury, so I skimmed it. But I still puzzled over this clipping, because again Barry had trimmed a portion of the text, this time vertically. Had he had eye problems? The back of this sheet held more ads similar to the others. I sighed. The more evidence I collected regarding Barry’s murder, the more bewildering things became.

The last three items, the fancy cosmetics boxes, were indeed all makeup. First I opened the slender rectangular box and pulled out a pale green, marbleized plastic compact, a cream foundation designated as Honeycream. I opened it; the compact looked as if it had been slightly used. Yuck. The next box held new red lipstick; the third was a roll-up cream blush. I checked all three for secret compartments, tiny written messages, you name it. There was nothing. No question about it—this made a lot of sense, as in none. I went back to the compact mirror, where my exhausted face squinted back. Barry wasn’t the only one who had thought I needed a new look.

I stuffed all the items back in the envelope, which I slid deep into my tote. Tom would have some ideas, I reasoned. He might even know what a dog file was.

I was confused. I was tired. So, I was not in the best of moods when I plodded into the luxurious lingerie department of Prince & Grogan. Pam was there, holding up a lacy teddy, and shaking it from side to side, while a potential customer, a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman with silver hair, gaped. I edged over and heard her croon, “Incredibly slinky and soft against the skin,” and “Oh, you’ll thank me! And so will she!” and “This one’s our top seller. The highest quality, of course. You have to spend money to get the best, but you know that.”

I eased over to a table of reduced flannel pajamas and surreptitiously watched Pam go through her routine. She was good. “Don’t you want something for that special weekend?” “Oh, she deserves it! You deserve it!” “We can’t keep these in stock!” Pam was like a drug dealer for the heroin of shopping. Unlikely she’d ever be a guest speaker at Shopaholics Anonymous.

As Silver Hair smiled and piled items up by the cash register—black lace teddy, pink transparent nightgown, two-piece (very small pieces) nightwear, red satin bustier, feathery mules, push-up bra—he seemed to take on a glow. He told Pam jokes. Her little laugh tinkled. He tilted his silver head close to hers.

Several times, Pam announced, “Then there’s one more thing you must buy! She is soooo lucky to have you.”

Silver Hair beamed some more. This man was in a shopping zone. Since I’d first spotted him, he looked taller, more powerful, even happier. Which I suppose was the whole point… while it lasted.

When he finally whipped out his credit card, I held my breath. Pam’s demure voice said eight hundred and something dollars. Where was that security guard with the smelling salts? The silver-haired man beamed and said that would be fine.

“Oh, it’s you,” Pam said flatly when I appeared at the counter after Silver Hair had swept away triumphantly with his purchases.

“You promised you’d talk to me,” I reminded her firmly.

“Yeah, yeah.” She glanced around her department, probably to see if there was anyone more important than Goldy the caterer, which meant anyone who was willing to splurge on lingerie. “OK, make it fast,” she said impatiently. “Thursday is a big noontime shopping period for us, because businessmen usually have lunch with their mistresses on Fridays. Did you know that that’s why Fridays are the worst day to get a table at a romantic restaurant? The guys just can’t stand the prospect of spending the weekend with their wives, and they want to reassure their girlfriends that they really care. So they buy them a sexy present for that special pre-weekend lunch.”

“And then have sex in the car afterward? Sort of like dessert?”

Her glare was withering. I smiled innocently. “Sorry. You just hear all kinds of stuff in the catering business. I serve Friday lunches, you know. I’m always wondering what the big rush is to get out.”

“Maybe it’s your food.” She grinned, sending the blond ponytails trembling.

I ignored that. “Pam, I just want to talk to you for a few minutes. Can’t I take you to lunch?”

“I told you. I can’t go to lunch because it’s our busy time.”

“I’ll buy something.” I gestured at the silken heaps around us.

“Yeah, right. I saw you pawing through the sale flannels.”

“Sell me a bathrobe, then.”

Her face brightened. “Lace or sheer?”

“Er, terry cloth.”

“I knew it!” she said, her voice scathing.

She wiggled over to a rack of sherbet-colored terry robes that I thought looked quite cozy. Then she lifted an assessing eyebrow at my short, pudgy self, moved away from the small-size robes, and pulled out three medium-size ones. I put on the first, a pale green with satin edging, and assessed myself in a mirrored column. I looked like a half-eaten lime Popsicle.

“Pam, a friend of mine has been accused of killing Barry Dean. I don’t think he did it. You seemed to be Barry’s friend—do you think he had any enemies the cops aren’t looking at?”

Scanning her department unsuccessfully for more sugar daddies, she rolled her eyes. “I wish I knew who those enemies were. I’d kill ’em myself.”

I unwrapped myself from the green robe and put on the blueberry-colored one. “Ellie McNeely is my friend. I’ve heard a lot of stuff lately about how jealous she was of you.”

Pam sniffed and scowled at the blue robe. “You look like you’re wearing a sleeping bag.” When I reached for a lemon-colored robe, she said, “I don’t know what Ellie’s problem was. Barry preferred me. Maybe he would have married Ellie, but so what? I didn’t want to marry Barry. My sister’s married, and she’s miserable. I just wanted to … you know… do stuff with him.”

Like have sex in the car , I thought, but did not say. I did want to hear about Pam’s sister, but I also needed to dig a bit more on the topic of Ellie. “So,” I asked noncommittally, “did you read in the paper about Barry’s steamy love life?”

Pam’s eyes lit up. “You bet I did! That article even brought me business. See the sexy other woman , that kind of thing.” She shook her head dismissively. “Ellie was a bitch, and she only got worse. She was so mad at Barry, it was scary. What’s that famous quote? ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned….’”

“Did you ever see her argue with Barry?”

“Are you going to buy a robe or not?”

“The pink, I think.” I pointed to one I hadn’t even tried on. Pam assumed a disgusted expression, tugged it off its hanger, and quick-stepped to the counter.

“No, I never saw or heard Ellie argue with Barry,” she told me as she scanned the robe’s tag. “I heard plenty about how they didn’t get along, but it was all gossip.”

“Oh, speaking of gossip,” I said, as I handed over a wad of bills, “I heard some about your sister Page.” I lowered my voice. “Something about how jealous she was of stuff Barry gave you? How she inventoried each of his gifts to you, then bought things just like them for herself, only in a bigger and more costly version? I heard she couldn’t keep up, and that she really hated Barry, as a result.”

How about that—I had undone Pam Disharoon. She stood stock-still, her cheeks vermilion, her eyes ablaze, her blond ponytails quivering. If a dozen sugar daddies had flooded into the lingerie department at that moment, I don’t think she would have seen them.