An Uplifting Murder (24 page)

Josie pulled out her cell phone. “The police are a phone call away.”

“I stole the dress. It was brand-new,” Victoria said. “I could see that.” Now the words came out in a rush. “I took her diamond tennis bracelet, too.”

“What tennis bracelet?” Josie said.

“I never saw it mentioned in the news stories, but she wore a nice one,” Victoria said.

“The police like to keep back some information to find the real killer,” Alyce said.

“You take trophies,” Josie said. “Like a serial killer. How many other women have you murdered?”

“No! I didn’t kill her,” Victoria said. “I’m a thief, not a killer. I took the tennis bracelet and the dress. I admit that. I’m not proud of it, but she was already dead. She didn’t need them.”

“Where are they?” Josie asked.

“I sold the tennis bracelet at a pawnshop. I sold the dress to a friend who needed it for a date. She couldn’t wait until my next shopping party. I can invite you to one. I sell a lot of designer clothes that I...”

“Shoplift,” Josie finished. “The parties are over, Victoria. These clothes go back to the stores or I call the police. I should call them now. They’re looking for you.”

“Please, don’t!” Victoria said. “I lost my job and can’t find another. This is my mother’s house. She had a small heart attack. She’s in rehab at a nursing home and it costs a fortune. Her Social Security only pays for part of her treatment. I’m trying to make the mortgage and the utilities so she’ll have a place to come home to.”

“Which home is she in?” Josie asked.

“Carlson Place in Chesterfield.”

Alyce raised her eyebrows. “That is pricey. What’s the number?”

Victoria rattled off a number and Alyce keyed it into her cell.

“Give me your last name and your mother’s,” Alyce said.

“Garbull,” Victoria said, and spelled it. “My mother is Justine Garbull.”

Alyce pressed the call button, then said, “Is Mrs. Justine Garbull a patient at Carlson Place?” There was a pause. “When is she expected to return home? You can’t give out private information? I understand. Thank you.”

“There is a Mrs. Garbull,” Alyce said. She kept her cell phone out. It looked like a threat.

“Keep talking,” Alyce said. “If you tell us the truth, we won’t call the police.”

“Do you live in this neighborhood?” Victoria asked.

“No,” Josie said. “But I know Chuck, your next-door neighbor. He’s been watching you. One word to him, and he’ll spill everything if the cops ask.”

“That old busybody,” Victoria said. Chuck would have been hurt by her venomous look.

“Men can be worse gossips than women,” Josie said. “You thought he was admiring your blond hair—but he’s been watching your parties. He’ll make a good witness.”

“Where did you get the wheelchair when we ran into you in the restroom?” Alyce asked.

“It belongs to Plaza Venetia,” Victoria said. “The center keeps a couple stashed in an alcove behind the escalator. I use them sometimes to . . . get merchandise. No one ever suspects me. I wheel myself into the dressing room with a lot of clothes and keep talking so the saleswoman forgets to count the items. I always refuse her help because I’m so independent.”

“Clever,” Josie said.

“Hey, it works,” Victoria said. “I put on the clothes in the dressing room, then put on my oversized coat. I’ve rolled out wearing as many as six sweaters and two skirts. Sometimes I buy a sale item if it’s cheap enough, to avoid suspicion. It doesn’t matter if it fits. I resell it at my parties.”

“What were you doing in the mall bathroom?” Josie asked.

“I needed to take off the clothes I’d...” She stopped.

“Shoplifted,” Josie said.

“And put them in shopping bags, so I could leave,” Victoria said. “When it’s time to leave the mall, I fold up the chair, put it away, and walk out. I never had any problems until that day. Then I opened the stall and found that dead body. I couldn’t change clothes. I did see her dress and bracelet and I took them. I stumbled out and slammed the door so hard, the bolt slid shut. I sat down in the chair and tried to get out. That’s when you came in.”

Alyce glared at her. “Why didn’t the police find your fingerprints on the stall door?”

“I wore wool gloves,” she said. “Please, put away your cell phone. I’ll stop the parties. I’m a shoplifter, not a murderer. I’m not a bad person, really.”

“You just rob the dead,” Josie said.

Chapter 25

Jane was lounging on her pale green living room couch, a pillow under her head and the shih tzu on her lap. Bright-eyed Stuart Little wagged his tail when he saw Josie.

“Excuse me,” Josie said. “There must be something wrong with my eyes. I see a dog on your couch.”

“Stuart is not a dog,” Josie’s mother said. “He’s a member of the family. He likes the soaps.”

“He likes getting his ears scratched,” Josie said.

“We’re watching
The Young and the Restless
. They’re dealing with the mix-up of Sharon and Nick’s baby with Ashley’s baby.”

“Didn’t Ashley miscarry?” Josie said. She didn’t watch her mother’s soaps, but she remembered some of the plots. Jane discussed the characters’ accidents, arrests, and amnesia as if they were real people.

“She did,” Jane said. “But Ashley thinks Sharon and Nick’s baby is hers. We hope DNA will prove they are the true parents, don’t we, Stuart?”

“Woof!” the dog said.

“Are Nick and Sharon married?” Josie asked.

“No,” Jane said. “Nick is married to Phyllis. He used to be married to Sharon. She was his first wife and they share a child. He has a child with Phyllis, too. Ashley thought she was pregnant by Victor—he’s Nick’s father—but she was really being manipulated by Adam, who is Nick’s half brother.”

Josie struggled to follow her mother through the swamp of the soap’s plot and lost her way. “So Adam is the bad guy.” Josie sounded likeaCstudent guessing at an answer.

“Adam is a terrible person,” Jane said. “Stuart recognized that right away.”

“Who’s Stuart?” Josie asked.

“He’s right here,” Jane said. She patted the dog’s head. “Every time evil Adam appears, Stuart Little growls. He wags his tail for poor Ashley, who needs some encouragement. Stuart knows the plot.”

“Better than I do,” Josie said.

“Are you hungry, sweetie? Would you like some roast chicken?” Jane asked.

“That would be nice,” Josie said.

“I was speaking to Stuart,” Jane said. “But help yourself, Josie. There’s a whole bird in the fridge.”

Great. The dog gets waited on and I get the bird, Josie thought. She heard a car door slam and looked out her mother’s living room window. “Thanks, Mom, but Amelia’s home. I want to see how her field trip and shopping expedition went. Can I walk Stuart Little for you?”

“No, thanks,” Jane said. “We want to finish our soap. Then we’ll go for a walk. Maybe I’ll let Amelia walk the dog. She’s been begging to take him out.”

Josie tried to feel happy that Stuart Little had won her mother’s heart and forget that she’d been displaced by a dog. She made her way carefully down the back stairs to her winter-dark kitchen.

Josie didn’t see Amelia but she could smell her daughter across the room.

“Yuck. Amelia, where have you been?”

Josie flipped on the light. Amelia was wearing her coat, but she’d taken off her boots.

“Shopping at Bluestone’s.” Amelia widened her eyes to look innocent. It didn’t work.

Josie sneezed. “You smell like you fell into a vat of perfume.”

“It’s not my fault.” Now Amelia was talking too fast. “Zoe—”

“I should have known,” Josie said.

“It’s not Zoe’s fault, either, Mom. Bluestone’s had the new prom perfumes on display. We were looking at the bottles. I liked Michael Kors’s Very Hollywood. Zoe said she loved Vera Wang’s Glam Princess because the bottle was shaped like a heart. Rebecca thought Versace’s Versus rocked and said she’d buy it just for the purple bottle.

“Zoe said they were selling perfume, not bottles. She sprayed some Glam Princess on her wrist. Then she sprayed my wrist, but she sprayed too hard and it stunk.

“I sprayed her back with Very Hollywood. Rebecca was laughing and saying, ‘More! More!’ so we both sprayed her. Then she sprayed us with Versus and it kinda got out of hand.”

Josie sneezed again. “Amelia, I knew this would happen if you went shopping with Zoe.”

“Mom, the salesclerks were right there. Nobody said anything to us. Nobody got mad. Ask Mrs. Cohen.”

“I will,” Josie said. She sneezed a third time. “You stink. Put your coat and scarf on a hanger and leave them on the back porch to air out. Then take a shower while I call Rebecca’s mother.”

“Can I still see Grandma after my shower?” Amelia asked. “We’re cooking broiled flank steak tonight.”

“She can have you for the evening,” Josie said, and sneezed again. “Now, go shower. I’m allergic to my own daughter.”

Harry the cat trailed his gal pal into her bathroom. Josie dialed Golda Cohen.

“I know why you’re calling,” Golda said. “I bet you smelled your daughter.”

“She reeks,” Josie said.

“You should get a whiff of my car,” Golda said. “I made the girls ride home with the windows rolled down. I almost choked on the perfume fumes.”

“I’m sorry Amelia misbehaved.”

“She didn’t,” Golda said. “None of the girls did. They were at Bluestone’s looking at the perfume testers. The girls got carried away. The sales staff was busy talking to one another and didn’t notice. The girls stopped as soon as they saw me. Amelia’s going to have trouble getting rid of that odor. Rebecca has had two showers so far and her hair is still pungent.”

“Amelia is in the shower now,” Josie said.

“She’ll need at least one more before school tomorrow. Don’t worry, Josie. The girls were good, even Zoe.”

Josie could hear the water running in Amelia’s bathroom when she hung up. The phone rang again. This time it was her boss, Harry the Horrible.

“Got another job for you,” he said.

“Good,” Josie said. “My January heating bill is going to be a bear.”

“You’ll love this one,” Harry said. “I want you to get your hair cut at Cheap Chick.”

“That’s the name of a salon?” Cheap Chick sounded like an insult to Josie.

“It’s a chain. You’ve seen their ads on TV—‘High Fashion at Low Prices.’ They’re like Supercuts, only better.”

“Oh, you mean Cheap Chic Cuts,” Josie said.

“That’s what I said.”

Not quite, but Josie wasn’t going to split hairs. “Harry, I’m not sure about this. Angela cuts my hair every four weeks at her beauty shop on Manchester Road. She’s good. I don’t want to go to an unknown stylist and wind up with my hair ruined.”

“Cheap Chic stylists are trained in New York,” Harry said. “They’re better than the local slobs.”

Josie heard versions of this way too often: If you were any good, you’d leave the city. She felt it was a self-fulfilling prophecy. As for “local slobs,” that inelegant description definitely fit Harry.

Josie’s mind flashed on a mental picture of her troll of a boss, his fingers greasy from some artery-busting snack. Hair—at least on his head—wasn’t something Harry had to worry about. Too bad he couldn’t transplant those furry growths from his chest, nose, and knuckles to his scalp.