by Joanne Fluke
Every year I vow to buy gifts early and avoid the last-minute crunch. But you know me. I make a lot of vows I don’t keep. (See Discipline the Cat Vow.) In just a matter of days I’d be boarding a plane to Florida and so far, I hadn’t bought a single gift. I couldn’t afford to procrastinate one minute more.
So, fortified with a wholesome breakfast of peanut butter on a Pop Tart, I headed off to do battle at the mall.
I zipped over to Century City and pulled into a coveted parking space right near the escalators, congratulating myself for getting out of the apartment by ten A.M. and beating the crowds.
My game plan was simple.
This year, I would not stand in a daze agonizing over what to buy. I would be a kamikaze shopper, choosing my gifts quickly and decisively.
It didn’t matter what I bought, anyway. Whatever the gift, my mom always says, “Oh, darling. I could’ve bought it for less on the shopping channel.” Really, if you bought my mom a new house, she’d tell you she could get it for less on the shopping channel.
No, this year, I would march into Macy’s and buy practical gifts that everybody could return for something they really wanted. No dithering, no shilly-shallying. If I stuck to my schedule I’d be out of there in an hour.
Hah!
Three hours later, I was still wandering around in a daze, wasting time looking at impractical, impossible-to-pack items like rotisserie cookers, musical flowerpots, and macrame hammocks (perfect for Cousin Joanie’s Chicago condo).
By the time I finally managed to get my act together and pick out my unimaginative assortment of ties, scarves, pajamas and slippers, the stores were crowded and long lines were snaking at the registers. What would’ve taken minutes to buy hours ago, now took forever.
Finally, when the whole horrible ordeal was over and my credit card lay gasping in my wallet, begging for mercy, I headed over to the food court to reward myself with a corn dog and fries.
Which, I have to say, were pretty darn delicious.
I sat there, inhaling my food, grateful that I had a whole 364 days before I had to go through this nightmare again.
And then, just as I was polishing off my fries, I remembered Angel Cavanaugh, and her sledgehammer hints for a Christmas gift.
I’d checked out the L.A. Girlfriends guidebook, and sure enough, although normally frowned upon, “modest gifts” were permitted at Christmas.
I rummaged in my purse till I found the newspaper ad Angel had given me, for a pair of jeans from a store named Hot Stuff. Scrawled in the corner of the ad, in Day-Glo pink marker, were the words: “I wear a size 0.”
I almost choked on my Coke when I saw what they cost: Eighty bucks!
No way was I spending $80 on that kid. Twenty dollars was “modest” enough for me and my MasterCard.
Then I remembered Angel sucking at that inhaler of hers, gasping for air, and a wave of sympathy washed over me. I thought of her crummy apartment and her overworked dad. Something told me she wasn’t going to be getting a lot of gifts this Christmas. Or any other Christmas, for that matter.
Oh, what the heck? I was already in hock to MasterCard for decades to come. What was another $80?
With a weary sigh, I tossed my corn dog wrapper in the trash, and set out to buy a pair of Hot Stuff jeans.
Luckily, there happened to be a Hot Stuff store in the mall. But not-so-luckily, when I got there, I discovered they were sold out of jeans in Angel’s miniscule size 0.
“Would you like me to see if I can find a pair in another store?” the bouncy teenage clerk asked.
Hot Stuff was one of those stores geared to the Clearasil Set, whose idea of a size Large was my idea of a handkerchief.
“That would be great.”
She called around and minutes later got off the phone, grinning.
“Good news! They’ve got one pair left out in Glendale. I told them to hold it for you.”
“Glendale?”
I gulped in dismay. Do you know what it’s like getting from Century City to Glendale in L.A. Christmas traffic? Think the Donner Party, with palm trees.
No way was I going to trek all the way out there for Angel Cavanaugh.
Then once more the image of Angel sucking on that inhaler flashed before my eyes, and the next thing I knew I was crawling along on the freeway, watching my fingernails grow. I swear, I would’ve made better time on a walker.
It took me nearly two hours to get there, and another twenty minutes to circle around looking for a parking spot. Finally I found one at the far end of the lot and hiked over to the Hot Stuff store.
A vacant-eyed teenager sat at the checkout counter, chatting on the phone in what I could only assume was a personal call.
“She didn’t! Really, Cheryl? She actually said that? Why, I’d never speak to her again if I was you, Cheryl. No, sir. I’d tell her exactly where she could put that pom-pom of hers!”
I stood there listening to this fascinating monologue for a few minutes, then finally managed to get her attention.
“Hey! You, with the phone glued to your ear. You’ve got a customer. Remember us? The people you’re supposed to be helping?”
Okay, so what I really said was “Ahem,” but she got the message.
“Hold on a sec,” she said to Cheryl, then turned to me with an irritated sigh. “How may I help you?”
“You’re supposed to be holding a pair of jeans for me at the register.”
She stared at me blankly. “I don’t have any jeans here.”
“Sure, you do. They called a couple of hours ago from Century City.”
“I dunno about any call. I just started my shift five minutes ago.”
“Could you please just look behind the counter for a pair of jeans.”
“Oh, all right.”
With a grudging sigh, she poked behind the counter.
“Nope,” she gloated. “No jeans here.”
“Are you sure?”
“Look for yourself if you don’t believe me.”
I looked, and she was right. Nada. Zip. A jeans-free zone.
Grinding my teeth, I showed her the ad from the paper.
“You have any of these jeans?”
“Over there,” she said, pointing vaguely to a rack in the back of the store.
I hurried over to the rack and checked out the jeans. Thank heavens, there was one pair left in a size 0. I was just about to reach for them when I felt someone tap me on my arm.
I turned to see a short roly-poly woman at my side.
“Would you mind helping me out?” she said, smiling sweetly. “I need one of those sweaters.”
She pointed to some sweaters stacked on a shelf above the jeans.
“No problem,” I said.
“Thank you so much! I need a pink one in a size small. It’s for my niece. All the kids seem to love this place.”
“Don’t I know it,” I said, reaching up to get the sweater.
I turned to hand it to her and I saw, to my consternation, that she’d taken my size 0 jeans from the rack.
“Excuse me. I was going to buy those.”
“Oh?” she said, still smiling sweetly. “So was I.”
“But I saw them first.”
“Well, I’ve got them now.”
For the first time I noticed a glint of steel behind that smile of hers.
“You don’t understand. I called the store and told them to put these jeans on hold for me.”
“What a pity they didn’t.”
“I drove out here all the way from Century City in rush-hour traffic.”
“And all for nothing!” she tsk-tsked. “Well, thanks for helping me with the sweater.”
She traipsed off with the jeans clutched to her ample bosom. And I went a tad ballistic. I charged after her, lunging for the jeans like a bull with anger management issues. But she wasn’t about to let go of them. Not without a fight.
And that’s exactly what happened.
I’m ashamed to say we had a most und
ignified tussle over those jeans.
I leapt into the fray with confidence. My roly-poly adversary was a good twenty years older than me. Surely I could take her down.
But she was a surprisingly tough fireplug of a lady. After much mutual pushing and clawing, she managed to land a powerful shove that left me flat on my fanny, the contents of my purse scattered on the floor around me.
“Bye, now!” she trilled, skipping off to the register. “And thanks again for the sweater.”
Muttering a string of curses not fit for your delicate ears, I gathered my belongings and stormed over to the checkout counter, where the clerk was ringing up her sale.
“I just love the holiday season!” she chirped to the bored teenager. “It’s such a happy time of year, don’t you think?”
“Whatever,” grunted the clerk.
“I hope you can live with yourself,” I hissed in Ms. Fireplug’s ear.
But she went on chatting, blithely ignoring my eyes boring holes in her back.
Finally the clerk finished her end of the transaction and asked Ms. Fireplug for her credit card.
“Of course, dear!”
She reached into her purse, and suddenly her good mood vanished.
“My wallet,” she gasped. “I’ve lost my wallet!”
“Hah!” I crowed. “That’s what you get for being such a lowdown sneak.”
“If you’re not gonna buy this stuff,” the clerk sighed, “I gotta do a void.”
“I’ll take those jeans,” I piped up.
Together the clerk and I managed to pry the jeans from Ms. Fireplug’s fingers. And after the original sale was voided, I whipped out my credit card and paid for them.
Now it was Ms. Fireplug’s turn to stand glaring at me.
“There you go, Ma’am,” the clerk said, handing me the jeans in a gift box. “Have a nice day.”
“Oh, I will. I most definitely will.”
Then I reached into my pocket for a little something I’d found when I’d been crawling on the floor picking up the contents of my purse.
“I believe you dropped this in our scuffle,” I said, tossing Ms. Fireplug her wallet.
And then I headed out into the mall, the sweet sounds of her curses following in my wake.
I had just started the Himalayan trek back to my car when I noticed a store that stopped me in my tracks. The place was called The Cap Shack, and a sign in the window said: PERSONALIZED BASEBALL CAPS FOR ALL OCCASIONS.
And there in the corner of the window was a bright red cap with the words Fiddler on the Roof embroidered across the front. Fiddler, not Fiedler. The play, not the roofers. It was the only theatrical title among the Old Fart, I Love Grandma, and Kiss Me, I’m Irish baseball caps on display. What, I wondered, was it doing there?
Suddenly the wheels in my brain, rusted from a day at the mall, started spinning. I had a hunch how the Fiddler cap got there and I marched inside to see if I was right.
A skinny kid with a bobbing Adam’s apple sat behind the counter, a baseball cap on his head.
“Welcome to The Cap Shack,” he intoned with all the enthusiasm of a funeral director.
“Hi, Francis.” I knew his name was Francis because it said so on his hat. “I’m hoping you can help me out.”
“You looking for work? Trust me. You don’t wanna work here. It stinks.”
“No, I’m not looking for work. I just want to know if you keep a record of your job orders.”
“Sure. We keep ’em for six months.”
“You think I could take a look at them?”
“Sorry,” he said, with a lugubrious shake of his head, “I’m not allowed to divulge personal information about our customers.”
Now before I write another syllable, you’ve got to promise that what happened next stays between us. Don’t go ratting on me to Century National, okay?
In spite of the stern warning I’d received from Elizabeth Drake, I whipped out my Century National insurance card and gave one last performance as Jaine Austen, Insurance Investigator. (I swear, Elizabeth, if you’re reading this, I’ll never do it again!)
“You’re really investigating a murder?” Francis asked, his eyes bugging with excitement.
“Yes,” I nodded solemnly. “And I need to see those books.”
Lucky for me, Francis was a gullible soul, and minutes later I was sitting behind the counter poring through a thick looseleaf binder of Cap Shack back orders.
It wasn’t long before I came across what I’d been hoping to find—a work sheet for a red Fiedler on the Roof cap.
All along I assumed someone had stolen one of Seymour’s caps to sabotage Garth’s roof. But I was wrong. Someone had the cap specially made to order. Someone who later planned to take advantage of Willard Cox’s very public feud with Garth and frame him for the murder.
Eagerly, I checked out the customer’s name.
Claudia Jamison.
It had to be a pseudonym. Oh, well. What did I expect? That the killer would use her real name?
But at least now I knew it was a woman.
The question was—which woman? Cathy, the cheating wife? Prudence, the ex-stripper? Or Libby, the Stepford homemaker?
Unfortunately, “Claudia” had paid for the cap in cash, so there was no way to track her down through a credit card.
“Do you remember this woman?” I asked Francis, showing him the work order. “Claudia Jamison?”
I had a feeling this guy had trouble remembering his own name, but it was worth a shot.
“Are you kidding?” he said. “You know how many customers we get in here?”
Not many from the looks of it, but I wasn’t about to contradict him.
“Wait a minute. Here’s my supervisor. Maybe he’ll remember.”
I looked up to see Francis’s “supervisor,” a beanpole of a kid who couldn’t have been more than eighteen.
“Hey, Denzel,” Francis said to his boss. “This lady’s an insurance investigator. She’s investigating a murder.”
“Cool.” Denzel smiled, revealing a mouthful of braces.
“Do you remember this order, Denzel?” I asked, showing him the work sheet. “For a Fiedler on the Roof baseball cap?”
His eyes lit up with what looked like actual intelligence.
“As a matter of fact, I do. We made a mistake on it, and had to do it over again. The first time we wrote Fiddler on the Roof.
“Actually,” he said, pointing to the red cap in the window, “that’s our mistake over there.”
I gave myself a mental pat on the back. That’s what I’d thought had happened.
“Do you remember the lady who ordered it?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Really?” I felt like kissing him, braces and all. “What did she look like?”
“She was a tiny lady, wearing a pastel sweat suit.”
Ta-da. Puzzle solved. At last I knew who’d climbed up Garth’s roof.
Not tall, statuesque Prudence. Or plump, stumpy Libby. Neither one of them was remotely tiny. But Cathy, a delicate doll of a woman, fit the description to a “T.” And she had a pastel sweat suit; she’d been wearing one the day I first came to visit.
What’s more, her initials were C. J. As in Claudia Jamison.
Yes, folks. It looked like I’d just found myself a killer.
Chapter Twelve
It had been ages since I’d scarfed down that corn dog at lunch, and by the time I got home, I was starving.
And I wasn’t the only one. Prozac looked up from her perch on top of the TV and greeted me with a hostile stare.
Where the heck have you been? I’m fainting with hunger.
“Oh, don’t be such a drama queen,” I said, dumping my Christmas gifts on the sofa. “There are cats in Asia who could live for a week on one of your snacks.”
Just move it, okay?
After feeding Prozac a gourmet dinner of Luscious Liver Tidbits and grabbing a fistful of pretzels for myself, I put in a call to Lt.
DiMartelli, eager to tell him about Claudia Jamison aka Cathy Janken. But he wasn’t there, so I left a message, begging him to pretty please get back to me as soon as possible.
I figured I’d wait for his call soaking in the tub with a glass of wine and a pepperoni pizza. But when I checked my phone messages, all plans for a catered bath went flying out the window.
Hey, Jaine. Tyler Girard’s voice came on the machine. I’m calling to remind you tonight’s the night of the L.A. Girlfriends Christmas party. Hope you haven’t forgotten.
Acck! I sure had.
The fun starts at seven. See you there!
Seven? Holy mackerel. It was already 6:45.
Kissing my bath good-bye, I showered and dressed with Indianapolis 500 speed.
Then I grabbed Angel’s gift and headed for the door.
“Bye, Pro!”
She didn’t look up from where she was snoring on my computer keyboard. Now that she’d gotten what she wanted, she had no more use for me.
If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she was my ex-husband.
I drove over to the party, humming an off-key version of “Frosty the Snowman,” not the least bit tired from my eight grueling hours at the mall.
On the contrary, I was feeling quite perky at the thought of seeing Tyler. How nice of him to call and remind me about the party. I couldn’t help thinking that he was interested in me. And not just as a volunteer.
I pulled into the parking lot of St. Philomena’s, a beautiful old church out in Santa Monica where the party was taking place, and checked my hair in the rearview mirror. Not a pretty picture. There’d been no time to blow it straight, and now I was stuck with the ever-popular Finger in the Light Socket Look.
Oh, well, I thought, getting out of the car, there was nothing I could do about it. At least I’d managed to throw together a decent outfit: jeans, a red cashmere turtleneck, and a yummy pair of high-heeled suede boots I’d bought on sale at Nordstrom.
Pulling my sweater down over the dreaded hip/tush zone, I sucked in my gut and headed inside.
The unmistakable aroma of Swedish meatballs greeted me like an old friend when I walked in the door. The party was in full swing, L.A. Girlfriends milling about, filling their plates from a buffet table groaning with goodies.
