Chapter 4
As soon as I walked into Brenda’s Bridal Shop, I was glad my mom had dared to snip. This was definitely not a jeans and T-shirt type of place. “Is Cherry paying for the dress or am I?” I asked, looking around and feeling a huge price tag coming on.
“Don’t worry. Chuck and Maeve are covering the cost,” she said, directing me to the front desk where a girl who looked eerily like Cinderella, or maybe it was Brendarella, was waiting for us with a frozen smile on her face. Suddenly it occurred to me that this whole shop was like a royal ball waiting on the fairy tale princess to appear. The walls were painted three shades of pink which coordinated with the pink rugs on the floor and heavy pink drapes cinched with golden tassels. Everywhere I looked there seemed to be something sparkly: sparkly purses, sparkly shoes, and sparkly veils. There was even a display of sparkly rhinestone-studded tiaras nestled on a table covered in pink satin. Adding to the effect, a dozen mannequins attired in long, puffed-sleeved, pastel-colored gowns seemed to hover over the floor as if they were suddenly frozen mid-dance. I kept my ears peeled for the trumpeters as Mom introduced us and our mission to the clerk.
“I can certainly help you with that, Mrs. O’Brien,” the clerk was saying to Mom. “Let me get the dress and have the seamstress measure her for the adjustments.” Brendarella was giving me a disapproving up and down look so I threw back my shoulders and sucked it in. Somewhere I’d heard that good posture took off an instant ten pounds.
I continued to keep my gut sucked in as I strolled around and pretended to study the displays with interest. I had some fun with a couple of tiaras before moving on to the display of little squishy silicone breasts inserts that promised to make any bride go from a B to a double D in seconds. I wasn’t all that interested in the displays, though; what I was really doing was avoiding too much contact with my mother. I knew that while we were actually in a bridal shop, any conversation between us could only be focused on one thing—my impending marriage or lack thereof. It bothered Mom that, except for my sister “the sister,” I was the only O’Brien girl that wasn’t happily married and busy adding little twigs to the O’Brien family tree.
Luckily I didn’t have to avoid her for too long, as Brenda soon returned, followed by a stout woman carrying a cushion of pins and wearing a measuring tape around her neck like a doctor’s stethoscope.
In Brenda’s hand was the ugliest dress I had ever seen.
“Oh my!” I heard my mother exclaim. “Is that the dress?”
Brenda answered with a slight raise of her brow and a nod toward the back of the store. “There’s a fitting room right around the corner.”
I followed as Brenda directed me down a long hall of curtained doors, shoved me and the pumpkin-colored atrocity into the room and ripped a heavy pink curtain across a wooden rod. “Let me know if you have any problems,” she said.
After a long spell of shimmying, pulling, shimmying, and more pulling, I managed to get the ugly thing over my hips. Sweat was dripping from my brow and my hair was frizzed around my face like a halo when I finally emerged from the dressing room.
“What took you so long?” Mom asked, spinning me around. “You’re not zipped.” She began yanking with all her might. “Suck it in,” she ordered.
“I can’t. Stop!” My arms flailed like a ragdoll as she viciously worked the zipper.
“Well, come on then,” she sighed, giving up the effort. “They’re waiting for us down the hall.”
I felt like an orange wrapped mummy. The dress was so tight around my thighs I could barely walk. Mom kept one hand on my elbow as I shuffled like a shackled inmate down a long hall of pink curtained chambers. We finally worked our way into a mirrored room where a skinny little twenty-something was perched on a carpeted block with a white sequined train flowing behind her. The seamstress was pinning up extra material while an entourage of blissful supporters stood by gushing with compliments.
“I’ll be with you in a second,” the seamstress said as my pumpkin-colored reflection slid into the mirror next to the soon-to-be Mrs. Happiness and her fifteen thousand dollar wedding gown. I heard a few gasps and giggles from the bride-to-be’s posse, confirming what I already knew—this dress was a joke.
I ignored the girls and struck a few poses in the mirror trying to keep an open mind about the dress. It was a strapless design with a figure-hugging bodice and a large double ruffle around the bust line. The ruffle was ugly, but it did serve to cover the rolls of fat that spilled from my armpits. “What do you think, Mom?”
“Uh…well…,” she sputtered. A first for Mom, usually she could find something diplomatic to say about everything.
The seamstress helped the bride off the block and moved over to me. “Let’s see,” she said, pinching and pulling at the fabric. Then wielding her measuring tape, she worked every angle of my body with dogged determination. “I think what we’ll need to do is take some material from the hem and sew in a panel in the back. The dress will be a little shorter than intended, but it should work.”
We all tried hard not to stare at the two inch, flesh-colored gap protruding from the back of the dress.
“I’ll make a few more measurements and see what I can do,” the seamstress offered.
Brenda poked her head into the room and addressed the seamstress, “Doris, you’re eleven o’clock fitting is here.”
“Send her in. I’m just finishing here,” Doris answered, making a couple quick notes. I wished her luck and turned to leave. I’d almost shuffled my way back to the dressing room hallway when in walked Sarah Maloney. We stopped face to face, regarding one another with shocked interest. She looked like an angel adorned in the most beautiful wedding gown I’d ever seen; I, on the other hand, was looking like a rotting veggie.
Of course, I recognized her instantly, but I think she was a little baffled by me. We’d only run into each other a couple of times when I was still dating Sean. She studied me for a moment, looking me up and down. Then, with a twinkle in her eye and a smile tugging at her lips she moved aside to let me pass. “Excuse me, Phillipena,” she said, arrogance tinting her tone.
My gap of protruding flesh in mind, I immediately turned away from her and started shuffling backwards down the hall. Mom, oblivious to whole scene, was still asking Doris questions. “Are you sure you’ll be able to add enough material to make the dress fit?” Then, “Is it too late to order a couple of sizes up? I’d be happy to pay for express shipping.”
Appalled, I tried to shuffle faster. Unfortunately, that wasn’t so easy with chiffon-bound thighs. With a sharp rip of fabric, I fell flat on my bootie. After catching my breath, I struggled on the ground for a moment. The dress was so tight, I couldn’t bend my legs enough to get back up. Finally, in a last ditch effort, I rolled over on my stomach, dug in my toes, and did a little push-up. By walking my hands back to my feet, I was able to form an inverted “V” with my body. Then, with one final hoist, I was upright. I turned and scurried the best I could down the hall; Sarah’s laughter following me all the way.
I changed in record time and was waiting by the car when mom finally came out of the shop. “Phillipena, what in the world is going on with you? I’m so embarrassed. Not to mention the dress. Who knows if they’ll be able to fix it now? You tore the side seam. Then, you just left it waded up on the floor of the…”
I held up my hand. “I know. I’m sorry, okay? Let’s just get out of here.”
We rode in silence for a few blocks before she asked me, “Who was that woman in the bridal gown, anyway? Do you know her?”
“She’s Sean’s new girlfriend…or fiancé, I guess. Sarah Maloney.”
“Oh, I see,” she said. “I thought you were over him.”
“Well, I’m not, okay? Let’s drop it.” My voice was shaky and tears were threatening to spill. I shifted in my seat, turning my face away and pretended to study the passing scene out my window.
She sighed, “Can I treat you to some lunch? Wong’s Stir Fry is jus
t down the road. I know how you love stir fry.”
Ugh. I used to eat there all the time with him. Of course, there really wasn’t any place I hadn’t been with him. In the three plus years we dated, Sean and I practically ate our way through all of Naperville and several of the nearby burbs. “No thanks, Mom. I’m really not up to it. Besides, I’ve got a lot of work I should be doing.”
Her posture stiffened slightly. I knew she wasn’t going to let the issue drop. “I understand,” she started, paused, and then had to add, “but let’s talk about this. Tell me what’s going on with you. I’ve noticed that you haven’t been dating at all these days. If you’ve been holding out for Sean, well…you can let that go now. Obviously, he’s serious about this girl or she wouldn’t be trying on wedding gowns.”
I groaned. “Please, Mom, please! I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I’m just saying it’s not healthy, that’s all. You should be moving on by now. Do you remember when your sister broke up with that boy from DePaul, what was his name…?”
I sighed. “Bobby Nolan.”
“Yes, that’s right. Bobby Nolan. Anyway, Anne was completely heartbroken. She was so sure she’d never find anyone else and look at her now. She’s found a wonderful husband, lives in a great neighborhood, and is already expecting … blah … blah … blah.”
I tuned her out, my mind veering off on its own path. That would be the path to destruction, or more specifically self-destruction. I was working myself into a terrible funk allowing my thoughts to dwell on my ex’s pending nuptials and my own lonely, pathetic existence.
“Phillipena, are you listening to me?” I snapped back to attention. “I was saying that you should join that singles group at church. I’m sure there are a lot of nice men there.”
Thank goodness we were pulling into the driveway. “That’s a great idea, Mom. I’ll look into it,” I promised as I hopped out and headed immediately for the hedges that separated my parents’ yard from the back alley and the entrance to my above-garage apartment.
“I’ll let you know when the final fitting is scheduled,” she yelled after me. “And don’t forget to call the church!”
*
I immediately peeled off my shopping outfit, planning to wash and return it to my resale stockpile as soon as possible. After throwing on my most comfy stretch pants and a favorite hoodie, I went directly to the fridge and stopped. There, stuck with a magnet was the note I hung the previous day, CHECK YOUR EMOTIONS. It was to remind me to stop and think about my emotional state before opening the fridge. I got the idea the other day while I was standing in the checkout line at ValueMart, stocking up on chocolate and soda. One of the magazines boasted the headline—No More Emotional Food Binges. The article suggested posting verbal reminders to help keep unbalanced eating in check. I thought it was a great idea. I posted little reminders everywhere, even in the bathroom where just last week, I downed an entire bag of chocolate chip cookies while soaking in a hot bath.
I paused and checked my emotions; Damn, I hate that Sarah Maloney! But, was eating a thousand calories going to help me feel better? I thought about how great she looked in her wedding gown and how horrible I looked in the pumpkin-colored disaster. I drew in a deep breath. No, I didn’t need the extra calories.
I opened the fridge and, with all the self-control I could muster, moved past the left-over pizza, past the soda and chocolate pudding cups, and extracted a low-fat yogurt. Proud of myself, I took my healthy food choice to the computer and settled in for a couple hours of work. I had been lazy the last couple of weeks and didn’t have my usual amount of items listed on-line. I also noticed several people hadn’t paid their invoices and I was a little behind packaging and mailing. I really needed to ramp up my efforts. Besides, busy-work would help keep my mind off Sean.
Since school had started, I focused on kid’s clothes. I cleared a large spot in the middle of the room and pulled out a half dozen plastic bins marked “Fall-Kids.” After an hour of sorting by size, I was able to put together fifteen lots of brand name clothes. I carefully arranged and photographed each lot before bagging them into separate, numbered bags. Then, after grabbing another yogurt, I downloaded the photos, typed descriptions and listed them on-line. I was a day behind this week. Usually, I preferred to do seven-day listings ending on Sunday afternoon. That way, the end-of-auction bidding would occur when most people were off work and in front of their computers. However, looking at my on-line bank account balance, I needed to get some things moving now.
After finishing my listings, I moved to packaging. The living area of my apartment served as shipping and handling. At any one time, there were enough boxes, strapping tape, and sharpies between my sofa and television to supply an entire UPS store.
I flipped on the television, printed off a couple dozen address labels, double checked my mailing list, and went to work wrapping, stuffing, and taping. A couple of infomercials later, I had a stack of tidy boxes ready to be shipped, not to mention the order number for an Abomizer, a neat little contraption that was guaranteed to whittle my flabby abs into sculpted six pack in just five days. Which would be a good thing to order, since in a little over a week, I was going to be paraded in front of two hundred wedding guests while wearing a veggie-colored bridesmaid dress.
I checked my cell phone for any new voice mails. None. I dialed Shep’s number and left another message. This time, I let my annoyance come through the phone. I’m sure he was just at home trying to recover from whatever bug he had, or maybe he decided to take an impromptu vacation; but still, I was one of his best friends. What would it take to return my call? I needed to warn him that Sean was looking for him.
The thought of which made me angry again. How could Sean ever suspect Shep of anything criminal, let alone something to do with murder? Here’s a guy that ran away from an abusive situation as a teen, grew up on the streets with nothing, turned his life around and was now owner of the Retro Metro, one of the hottest consignment shops in the city. Shep also used his success to help wayward kids. He hired dozens of runaways, paid them well and helped them get the counseling they needed to turn their lives around. He was an all-around good guy. There’s no way he would ever hurt anyone. I simple had to figure a way to convince Sean of Shep’s innocence. It was time to find out more about Jane Reynolds.
If I’d learned anything as a used merchandiser, it was that people’s cast-outs spoke volumes about their personal lives. For example, go through the garbage of a young family and you’ll find out-grown clothing, used up toys, and other remnants indicative of a growing family. A garbage with lots of take-out bags and Styrofoam Starbucks cups usually belonged to a young single person; and, the dumpsters on the college campus…well, needless to say, those kids aren’t spending all their time studying. Point being, if you want to know something about someone, go through their garbage.
Chapter 5
I felt a bit uneasy as I pulled into the parking lot of The Classy Closet. For a second, I considered abandoning my mission, but I knew if I wanted to get to the bottom of things I needed to find out more about Jane Reynolds.
As if on cue, the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the pavement as I eased my car next to the security fence that surrounded the dumpster. Using my station wagon as a step stool, I clambered up the windshield and made my way to the top of the car. I cringed when I heard a few metallic popping sounds under my feet, but I didn’t let it deter me. By stretching onto my tip-toes, I was able to get a firm enough grasp to hoist my upper body onto the top-edge of the fence. I teetered there for a moment, catching my breath, before swinging my legs up and over.
I landed with a thud on the other side, my palms acquiring a few splinters from the maneuver. Looking up, I was proud of my ninja-like prowess until I realized I hadn’t planned for a way out. Lucky for me there were several wooden pallets stacked next to the dumpster. I’d have to use them to fabricate a make-shift ladder. No problem.
The sky
was growing dark; I’d needed to work quickly. I surveyed the giant container. The left lid was open with stacks of folded cardboard boxes protruding from its depths.
By utilizing a couple of the pallets, I was up and into the dumpster in no time at all. At first glance I saw the usual: empty boxes, waded up plastic bags, broken hangers, shredded papers, and…oh…a beautiful black sequined purse. The dainty shoulder strap was broken, but heck, I could just take the strap off. It’d make a great little clutch. Wow, what a find!
Momentarily forgetting my mission, I began rooting around for more resalable treasures. In the corner, I found a partially opened box. Peering inside I was surprised to see several hard-cover books. Weird. Jane didn’t sell books, just clothing and accessories. What were these doing here?
Turning the box on its side, I saw the word Sokolov—the same as marked on the bags in Jane’s office. I wondered if I’d been wrong about the bags being brought in by a consigner; Jane probably picked up these items at an estate sale. A lot of consigners shop estate sales. I even go to them every once in a while, but only when I’m desperate—it gives me the heebies to buy dead people’s stuff.
I thought about it for a moment. Jane, the owner, probably hit an estate sale and purchased a large lot of clothing and accessories. This box must have been mixed in with the lot by mistake. So, instead of trying to return these books, she disposed of them.
I began going through the box, shining my light on each spine. The books were in good shape, leather bound, and written in a foreign language. I could tell they were somewhat valuable. I could definitely make a good profit selling them on-line.
On the other hand, maybe this was the connection I’d been looking for. Was there some sort of tie between the Sokolov estate and Jane Reynolds’ murder? I remembered that the clothing bags in Jane’s office were disheveled, as if someone had packed them in a hurry. I was rethinking that now. Could it have been that someone was searching through them? If so, what would be so valuable—valuable enough to kill for—in a bag of used clothing? Perhaps this was the type of connection Sean was hoping I’d make.
2 Murder on Consignment Page 3
