Priced to Move

by Ginny Aiken

  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.”

  She’s not married either! But that’s not the worst . . . “Poor Max! Are you nuts? I don’t even like him as a cohost. Haven’t you noticed how dumb he comes across on-screen? He doesn’t know a thing.”

  “He’s got a college degree. He must know something.” Hers is a feline smile. “And he sure does look good on those camera shots.”

  “Take him—please! Have him help you sell underwear. I’m sure he’ll look a different kind of cute holding up a frilly camisole.”

  Go with me here. A jock selling women’s underwear? Just desserts for the gem-dunce, if you ask me. “Who knows? He might send your sales right through the roof. I bet there’s enough women out there who think like you and will order just because he’s cute.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Cute? That’s a stupid word. He’s gorgeous, and you’re blind.”

  No, I’m not. I see gorgeous too, but I’ll take an order of brains with my serving of gorgeous, thank you very much. Maybe a little less of that potent oozing charm would help. I don’t have the experience—or the guts—to handle a guy like Max.

  I open the door and step out into the hall. “You know what? I apologized for dumping out your stuff. I offered to help, and all I got for my efforts was abuse. I’d rather clean toilets with a toothbrush than listen to you rant.”

  I learned all I was going to learn from that fun episode. Danni lusts for rubies. Now all I have to figure out is how much she lusts. And the provenance of that stone she bought.

  Did it come from Myanmar?

  The only good thing about my encounter with Danni is that no one else was there. Especially not Aunt Weeby.

  Or Max.

  Mortified, I skulk well away from Danni’s radar screen until her makeup’s done and she’s in the wings waiting for her cue. I hide out in my dressing room, cheeks ablaze, guilt heavy. And then my cell phone rings. “Hello.”

  “Hey, Andie!” Great. The unmistakable voice of Trophy Tiff. “Who is the S.T.U.D.’s stud? He’s hot!”

  Did I tell you I hate that term? Well, I do. And I’m not fond of Tiffany Hammond either. Never could see what Roger saw in her . . . except the silicone and the bleach-blond mane and the ten-feet-long legs. “Hi, Tiff. How are you? I’m surprised to hear from you. Is Roger okay?”

  She sniffs. “He’s fine, but sooo boring, I’m about dying here. Wish I had a stud like yours.”

  Her spoiled two-year-old whine gets on my nerves, as it always had. And I have nothing to say. This isn’t my kind of conversation. So I keep my peace—for once.

  Tiffany blathers on. “What kind of guy gets married then dumps his wife inside four walls? He absolutely ignores me. I’m bored. Bored, bored, bored!”

  Get a job! I think it, and have to bite it back, but I don’t say it. I’ve earned myself a medal, right? “Um . . . and you figure I need to know this because . . . ?”

  “Well, no. I don’t. It’s just—oh, forget it. I called you because Roger promised me a big, big ruby, and when that Pak guy didn’t show up, we didn’t get any rubies. I hear you got yourself some when you went off to do your Andi-ana Jones thing—isn’t that too cute? I came up with it all by myself. Roger thinks I’m brilliant.”

  Between the toddler whine and the new twist on my name, she’s brought up the subject of rubies. Right? “You called me because you don’t have rubies?”

  “We do, they’re just teeny, tiny little stones. Well, too small for me. I want a big ruby. And I figure I got connections— you! Can I come down and get one from you?”

  “Our rubies are available to everyone.” That’s the beauty of TV shopping. “Did something happen to your wide-screen? All our rubies will be featured on Thursday’s show.”

  “Oh no! That won’t work. I might not get the one I want, with all those other people calling in to buy. I want to come meet you so I can have my pick of the best.”

  Swell. I can just see it. Gem trays, Roger’s trophy, and me. Since when do I call the shots around here? “I can’t make that decision, Tiff. I don’t own the network. I’ll have to ask Miss Mona and see if she’ll agree.”

  “Ooooooh! Thank you. I’m so there. I’ve seen you in action. I’m sure you’ll work wonders on that old lady. See ya!”

  I sit back into my chair. Trophy Tiff strikes again.

  Lucky me.

  After that fun phone call, it’s my turn to surrender to Allison’s tender makeup ministrations.

  And while I sit in her chair, I talk her into letting me peek into her gear bag. Anyone who really knows me knows I’m a mascara, powder blush, and lip-gloss kind of girl. A satchel the size of Asia Minor filled to the gills with all colors of beauty potions doesn’t do much for me.

  But there’s a plethora of stuff one can hide in a bag that size. Not that Allison does. She’s legit; it’s all glitter and goop in there.

  “When did you become a fan of eye shadow?” Miss Mona asks from the door.

  I drop the suddenly scalding turquoise powder pot. “I just find Allison’s paints fascinating.”

  She frowns. “You do? How?”

  How does one explain sudden irrational behavior? “Uh . . . I figure I’m not getting any younger, and I’d better learn how to help Mother Nature w
hen the time comes. A little color goes a long way.”

  Both women give me a “Huh?” kind of look. And here I’ve always thought of Miss Mona as the queen of the “Huh?” factor. Seems it might just be contagious after all. Either that, or I’ve deposed her and taken the throne.

  Now that I know there’s nothing subversive in Allison’s bag, I want nothing more to do with it. Especially not since it makes everyone look at me as though I’ve sprouted an extra nose in the middle of my face.

  That reminds me of my encounter with Danni. She might be onto something with that nosy nose line.

  “Here.” I shove the bag at Allison. “I’ve looked enough. Am I done yet?”

  She looks at me weird. “Only if you want customers calling to ask what’s wrong with our camera.”

  She steps out from in front of the mirror, and I catch a glimpse of my face. My half made-up face. Blush, eye shadow, and mascara adorn my right side. My left? Let’s just say the total look is just a hair on the schizophrenic side.

  Miss Mona comes up close to stare at me. “Are you sure you’re feeling well? Maybe I should let Danni go ahead and take the show today. You had yourself a mighty stressful time in Myanmar, after all.” She taps her lips with her index finger. “I’m thinking she and Max can carry off the show.”

  Whoa! “No way! Neither one of them has a clue about prehnite, andesine, or amazonite. And that’s the bulk of what we’re selling on today’s show.”

  Miss Mona backs up a step, her eyes still glued to my face. “I’m going to have to have me a little talk with Livvy. I think you’re about due for a good dosing with her Great-Grandmother Willetta’s wonderful fish oil.”

  Oh, joy.

  An hour later, I’ve alienated two other women. I doubt Marcie, the cooking-show maven, will ever speak to me again. She caught me holding one of her deadly knives. Even after I showed her the earring back I’d “dropped” among her arsenal, she isn’t buying it. After all, every last one of her desk drawers didn’t have to be wide open for me to scrounge around in one for a butterfly back.

  Did I mention I hate this sneaky stuff? True, I’m curious, and I don’t have a thing against a modest amount of . . . probing, but this? This is gross. These women don’t deserve it.

  But no one’s figured out what happened to Mr. Pak.

  And he’s been dead for almost a month now.

  I head for the ladies’ room. And when Julie gets paged out to the lobby, I snag her tote bag and dive right in. Aside from a brag book filled with pictures of her girls and a handful of hair ribbons and diaper pins, I don’t find a thing I wouldn’t carry myself.

  What did I think I’d find?

  I give Julie’s stuff one last look, and even after this additional perusal, find nothing. But that’s not the end of my escapade. You see, she catches me with my hand in the cookie jar.

  “What are you doing?” she asks, her hand on her gun.

  Yikes!

  That steely voice throws a frost all over me. “Looking for a safety pin. I ripped my hem”—true enough—“and since you have kids, I figured you might have one stashed in here. It’s big enough for you to haul a bathtub wherever you go.” Her eyes, narrowed and dark with suspicion, don’t leave my face for a second. “I don’t have safety pins in my bag.”

  “I figured that out.” I wave a plastic ducky-embellished pin. “But one of your diaper pins should do the trick. If you don’t mind, that is.”

  Too late for my own good, the killer stare reminds me of the training Uncle Sam gave this woman. She was trained to obliterate the enemy. Right now, the enemy is me.

  I flip over the hem of my black jacquard skirt, show her the small rip, and stick the sharp steel end right through that outrageously expensive fabric. Ouch!

  The smile I plaster all over my mug is way too bright—as I can see in the mirror not five feet away. “Thanks, Julie. I don’t want the whole hem to come out before I have a chance to fix it. I love this suit, it’s new, and . . . well, you know how that goes.”

  Although she smiles back, the smile doesn’t even begin to tickle her eyes. “I guess I do know.”

  But knowing doesn’t do a thing for her suspicion, as those eyes blare back.

  And that’s when Aunt Weeby prances in. Yes, she does have a foot in a cast. Yes, she’s a senior citizen. And yes, she does prance. Don’t ask me how. It’s a gift.

  “There you are, sugarplum! I’ve been looking for you all over the place.”

  “You found me, but now I have to head to the set. It’s almost time for my show. I’m really jazzed about it. Miss Mona just told me the parcel of tanzanites we ordered before we left for Myanmar arrived this morning. We agreed I should add them to today’s list.”

  “Tanzanites?” Her sniff exudes disdain. “Those them lilac-colored stones I’ve seen at the mall?”

  I slip my arm through hers and put as much space between Terminator Julie and me as fast as I can. “You know better’n that. The lavender stones at the mall are okay for those who like their gemstones washed out and with hardly any color. A real, top-gem quality tanzanite is navy blue with a secondary purple color and tertiary flashes of red . . .”

  When we’ve put some distance between the gun-toting soldier and us, Aunt Weeby stops. “Well? What did you find out?”

  “That nobody likes a snoop.”

  “Pshaw! I’ll bet by tomorrow they’ve forgotten whatever it was you did to tweak their noses outta whack.”

  “Don’t hold your breath. I thought Julie was going to line me up before her friendly neighborhood firing squad.”

  She tsk-tsks. “You let Julie catch you going through a purse? Andrea! I told you to be subtle, sugarplum. What’d you go and do wrong?”

  Why me? “She caught me scrabbling through her bag.”

  Aunt Weeby’s eyes grow saucer-sized. “You went through

  Julie’s purse? No wonder she has her panties all a-twisted. She wasn’t exactly who I would have suspected. Is there a reason you thought a decorated reservist woulda killed your ruby-selling friend?”

  That’s not the first mistake in my long list of doozies.

  “You could say I got carried away, all right? And, it’ll teach me to listen to your crazy ideas. There’s no one here who would kill Mr. Pak for his rubies . . .”

  I let my voice trail off when I remember Danni’s red rock. Did she really get Miss Mona’s okay to take that stone? Did she really set up an employee paycheck payment plan? Is the stone Burmese?

  Is she who Mr. Pak really came to see?

  Before I dig myself a bigger hole than the one already swallowing me, I divert Aunt Weeby’s attention to the repulsive slime-green, lace-trimmed mini-boxers Danni’s trying to peddle on-screen.

  “Whoo-ee!” Aunt Weeby says. “Who in her right mind would buy a pair a’ them things? Just looking makes me squirm.”

  “Too much information, Aunt Weeby.”

  She shrugs. “What are you doing next?”

  “Not listen to you, that’s what I’m going to do.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Yeah. I listened to your nutty idea last night, and all I got is a bunch of enemies. I want no more of that.”

  “Then you’re giving up on finding who killed Mr. Pak.”

  “No. I’m going to do what every other sane woman would do. I’m going to leave it in the capable hands of the police.

  And the FBI, who must be involved since the corpse is a foreign national—”

  “Don’t go forgetting Interpol, Miss Andie,” Chief Clark says from behind me.

  I fight to keep from making a sound—that groan in my throat might incriminate innocent me in his eyes. I pray, then take a deep breath. Finally, I face him and the silent detective who seems to follow him everywhere he goes. “What brings you here, sir? Do you have any new information on Mr. Pak’s death?”

  He drags his hat off his head. “I was hoping you would tell me something I could really sink my teeth into.”

>   The way his eyes glom on me, I know I’m in trouble. Again.

  How can this man think I had anything to do with the murder? My alibi’s tighter than Tupperware. “I’m sorry, Chief Clark. I know nothing more about the death than what I already told you.”

  “You seem to know a whole lot about the agencies investigating this case.”

  “I doubt there’s an American who doesn’t know about the FBI.”

  The chief’s shadow stares at me through narrowed eyes. Chief Clark scratches his head. “You have yourself a point there. And I do have me a scrap of information for you. Them X-rays were negative.”

  “X-rays? Who did you X-ray? And why? What did the films not show?”

  His gaze flew to Aunt Weeby. “You didn’t tell her like I asked you to, Miz Weeby? I told you to check with her before I went ahead with it.”

  Aunt Weeby dismisses his question with a wave. “I couldn’t get ahold a’ her. Where she was out there in that Mo-go Valley place she didn’t have cell phone service. Plus I didn’t want to throw a monkey wrench at your investigation and slow you down, so I figured it’d be okay for me to say yes to you. You don’t mind one bit, now do you, Andie?”

  “What—”

  “So I had no permission.”

  Aunt Weeby tilts her chin. “She left me in charge.”

  Are they actually speaking about Miss Mona, then?

  Chief Clark shakes his head. “I’m not rightly sure that works as real consent.”

  “Now don’t you go giving me no never mind, Donald Clark. I knew what I was doing, and probably better than Andie here does. Didn’t I tell you I’ve become an expert in the field? If I say it’s okay to X-ray, then it’s okay to X-ray.”

  An idea sneaks into my head. A ridiculous idea. Still, it involves Aunt Weeby, so maybe it’s not all that ridiculous. “Did you have Chief Clark X-ray Rio?”

  Her smile nearly wraps around her head. “Why, sure, sugarplum! We needed to know if your Mr. Pak fed the poor little guy some a’ them illegal rubies.”

  Rubies in Rio’s gut is not an appetizing thought. Especially in view of where they would’ve ended up. But I’m not ready to go down a path that might lead to some answers. Not yet. And not in front of Chief Clark and his shadow.