Ginny Aiken - Priced to Move

I’d hoped she’d forget. Then again, Aunt Weeby has a mind like a fox trap.

“It’s no big deal.” I take my now-empty cocoa cup to the sink. “Every armchair at the airport was taken, so we both sat on a sofa. While I slept, I must’ve slipped sideways, and neither one of us noticed that I landed on his shoulder.”

“You landed on his shoulder?”

“Must be. ’Fraid I can’t tell you more than that. I was sleeping.”

“That’s it?”

“Sorry to disappoint. And now I get to go to bed.”

“Mm-hmm. You’ll need all the rest you can get, sugarplum.”

“I . . . will?”

“Uh-huh! Why, you’re going to be mighty busy, girl. What with your show and all that sleeping on Max’s shoulder and all that investigating you’re gonna be doing, that is.”

I ignore the sinkholes in Aunt Weeby’s words. “Investigating?”

“Sure, Andie. No one’s figured out yet why that dead guy wound up dead in our vault. Someone’s gotta do it. I figure you’re snoopy enough. That’s all it should take, some good ol’ fashioned snooping on your part. I’d do it, but I got me a cast and a bird to hold me back some.”

Okay. Help me here. Do I accept the compliment to my abilities or do I yelp at the insult? After a nanosecond’s thought, I decide to do neither.

“I bet you’re gonna tell me what I should do.” Why am I wasting breath? This is Aunt Weeby. She tells everyone what they should do.

“There’s only one thing to do. You’re gonna have to sniff out every last little thing there is to know about everyone who works out at that TV shopping network Mona’s got herself.”

Now there’s an appealing prospect. Stick my nose where it doesn’t belong to alienate my co-workers. “And how do you want me to do that without landing behind bars?”

“Easy, sugarplum! You just chat them up at work, ask all kindsa them subtle questions they do on TV, and maybe get a look inside their handbags. You know what they say about women’s handbags, right?”

They have something to say about handbags? “No, Aunt Weeby. I don’t know what they say about women’s handbags. But I’m sure you do. And I’m sure you’re just dying to tell me.”

“I don’t rightly know about any dying, but I can most certainly tell you about pocketbooks. They always say you can know all about a woman by the stuff she stashes in her purse.”

What’s in mine? Gum wrappers, a brush, my favorite Copper Rose lip gloss, my checkbook, wallet, sunglasses, a hair scrunchy, keys. That’s it. Pretty boring. And then I remember the no-man’s-land at the bottom, the flotsam that litters the lining. Receipts, the four-inch spiral-bound notebook I fondly think of as my brain . . .

Okay. Maybe “they” are onto something. There’s just one minor detail. “How do you expect me to get into these handbags?”

She stands and smacks her fists on her hips. “What? Do I have to do everything for you?” After an indignant sniff, she sails out the kitchen doorway. “You figure it out.”

Did I tell you I’m squeamish about sneaking around? No? Well, I’m telling you now. I mean, I do have the urge to snoop, but not the guts. That’s why there’s no way I’m diving into other women’s handbags. Dead ruby vendor or not.

No way.

No how.

Not in this lifetime.

14 00

“Are you just the clumsiest cow or what?” Danni demands. Or what. Time to punt. “I’m so sorry, Danni.” I kneel. “Here. Let me help you pick it all up. I owe you that much.”

Okay. I’m busted. I accidentally on purpose bumped her purse off the makeup counter while we wait for Allison to show up. And, of course, I’m on those spilled contents like stink on skunk. Against all logic, I’m pulling an Aunt Weeby.

“What are you doing now?” she shrills.

Innocence when you feel like the worst rat doesn’t come easy. “Me?” What to say? I grab a fistful of rubble, none of which checks out as remotely interesting. “Ah . . . what does it look like I’m doing? I’m . . . uhm . . . trying to help. I made the mess, and the least I can do is give you a hand picking it all up.”

“You are the most obnoxious creature I’ve met in all my born days.” Her big brown eyes spit hate my way. “First you come and steal my job away from me, then you score the cutest guy in town as your partner—and don’t think I didn’t hear all about that cozy little sleep deal during the exotic vacation you took on the network’s nickel—you bring down on us some crazed criminal who kills some guy you know, and now you’re going through my stuff like an alley cat in a dumpster.”

I snag a lipstick from under a cart of fuchsia, lime, and cobalt hair rollers, and stick it in Danni’s bag. Is this how people at the S.T.U.D. see me? If that’s the case, then I’m in worse shape than I thought.

Oh, Lord Jesus, help me! I know, I know. I got myself into this, but I don’t know how to get myself out. I know you can show me, though.

Danni’s response is so extreme that it does make me wonder. “You’re acting as though you’re hiding Queen Lizzie’s favorite tiara in there.”

I watch her like the proverbial hawk. Will my pointed question get a reaction from her?

Danni yanks her bag out of my reach. “Well, as you can now see—and everyone else too—there’s nothing special in my purse.”

But as she blindly shoves run-of-the-mill items into the black leather rectangle, I spot something. Okay, yeah, it’s interesting. That is, if a mini-ziplock baggie with one large, beautiful ruby in it snags your fancy.

Again, I choose to play dumb. “Oooh, Danni! Did you just treat yourself? You scored a stunner there. And you know I have to ask. Is it Burmese?”

“You are despicable.” If her eyes were knives, I’d be hamburger. “You’re butting in where you’re not wanted. But if you really have to know, not that it’s any of your business, yes, the ruby is for me. I’ve always wanted a nice one, and

Miss Mona said this morning I could go ahead and choose whichever I liked from the vault. And before you ask, I’m paying for it with deductions from my paycheck, Miss Big Ol’ Nosy Nose.”

What an image! I touch my offending feature before I catch myself. Time for a new topic.

Since there’s no way I can pick up the comb and handful of pennies still on the floor without risking bodily harm, I stand. “Miss Mona is a dear, isn’t she? Most other bosses would insist on keeping that stone to sell on air. She’d get a whole lot more that way than selling it to you. Employee discounts cut into profits.”

Comb and pennies disappear into the bag. Then she stands. “And you working here cuts into my profits. You ready to do the right thing and sacrifice so I don’t come up short at the end of the month?” She drops her purse on a chair, crosses her arms, and taps a toe. “I’m on-screen fewer hours than before, and when she started the network, Miss Mona set up the pay scale, as you well know, by hours.”

“No way! That’s plain wrong. I don’t buy your sad story, Danni. You’re doing all those underwear shows now that I’m here. That’s a bunch more hours a week than I work, so go get a calculator. It doesn’t add up to fewer hours for you.”

She blushes, glares, and then sticks her cute little button nose way up in the air. “I sell more than lingerie. You should see the cute new spandex Capris we got in this morning. And remember, it’s lingerie, Andrea, not underwear.”

Spandex Capris? Oh my! “I call ’em as I see ’em. The first things you put on your butt before you put anything else on: what’s that if not underwear?”

“No wonder you’re not married,” she says with a toss of her blond mane. “No guy’s ever going to want to take on someone who knows less than nothing of romance. Poor Max.”