Dying in Style (5 page)

“I noticed the wide shoulders and narrow hips,” Alyce said. “Big hands, too. Do you think the size of a man’s hand tells you about the size of his thingie?”

“Alyce!” Josie said.

“Well, his is huge. His hand, I mean,” Alyce said. She eyed Josie’s popcorn like Oliver Twist. Josie poured half on a napkin and pushed it toward her.

“Here. I can’t stand it,” Josie said.

Alyce didn’t bother with polite protests. She grabbed a handful.

“I’d think some of this would make the gossip columns at least,” Josie said.

“Danessa is a major advertiser,” Alyce said. “The media will never attack her. I don’t know why you’re so surprised. Did you know that Martha Stewart was a gold-plated bitch until her indictment? That woman had an ass double.”

“A what?” Josie said.

“Whenever she bent over on TV to get her soufflé out of the oven, that was the ass double’s rear end. We never saw Martha’s own rear. For that alone they should throw her butt behind bars.”

Josie couldn’t stop laughing.

“There’s a long tradition of prettying up women entrepreneurs,” Alyce said. “Did you know Leona Helmsley was the Queen of Mean until she was sitting in the dock? Leona and Martha had the same thing as Danessa: good public-relations people.”

“So nobody you know would be surprised by an unfavorable report on the Danessa stores?” Josie said.

“They’d be surprised if you said anything good,” Alyce said and finished the last of the popcorn. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” Josie said. “Can you use three Danessa eyeglass holders?”

That afternoon Josie finished her report. She was sick with dread as she typed. She wasn’t used to this kind of pressure. She would have some protection. Josie’s reports were anonymous, so the stores she shopped would never know her name. Some people would be discouraged by the anonymity of her job, but Josie liked being a fly on the corporate wall.

That’s what made the Danessa assignment so unnerving. Everyone would know the results, especially Josie. She knew Patrick the Rude would probably be fired after her Save Chic report, but she’d never see him getting the ax. If the Creshan Corporation killed the Danessa deal, it would be all over the news. Her mother would know, too. Josie would never hear the end of it.

I was fair, she told herself. I was impartial. I fairly and impartially destroyed the woman my mother most admires.

No, I didn’t. I didn’t create those dirty stores or hire that surly staff. The Creshan Corporation executives looked at the books and took the VIP store tours. But they suspected something was wrong.

Now Josie was about to hand the Creshan Corporation a dynamite report—one that could blow up and hurt a lot of people. Including herself.

Josie called her boss, Harry Bolrman, to warn him.

Harry lived up to his name. He had curly black hair all over his head, ears, nose, even his hands. More hair peeked through his shirt. The man looked like a werewolf at moonrise. Harry was perpetually fifty pounds overweight. Josie thought he could lose ten if he shaved.

She talked with Harry almost daily, but she rarely came into the office. He faxed or mailed Josie her assignments. In between, Harry talked about his Atkins diet. He was crunching something when he answered his phone.

“What are you eating, Harry?” Josie said. She’d never known anyone on a diet who ate such fattening food.

“Bacon,” he said. “I’ve lost two more pounds.”

Crunch. Crunch.

“Congratulations,” Josie said. Harry was always losing two pounds. The same two, over and over.

“When are you gonna get on this diet with me?” he said. Crunch.

“Sorry, Harry, I’m a carboholic. I can’t give up my bagels.”

“Those things are unhealthy,” Harry said as he munched nitrates and nitrites. “You should be on the Atkins diet. It’s the only way to go.” Crunch. “Serge, Danessa’s boyfriend, lost fifty pounds on it.”

Josie saw the ruthless-looking Russian sitting down to a whole roast bear with a side of oxen. He probably shot and skinned his own dinner.

“Didn’t he say that the Atkins diet was really invented by the Russians?” Josie said.

The savagely handsome Serge claimed to be a member of the Russian aristocracy. From what Josie could figure out, half the Russian immigrants were royalty and the other half were mobsters. Serge could have been both.

“Was that last week or the week before?” Harry said. “I can hardly open an issue of the
City Gazette
without seeing something Serge said.”

“This week he ranted that American prescription drugs were too expensive and Russia had a better health-care system,” Josie said.

“Don’t they?” Harry said. Crunch.

“The Soviet Union has collapsed, Harry,” she said. “There is no health-care system.”

Why am I defending the U.S. drug companies? Josie wondered. They’re all crooks.

Crunch. Harry bit into more bacon. He must have eaten half a pig while she’d been on the phone.

“How did the Danessa shopping go?” he said.

“Not good, Harry,” she said. “I wanted to warn you before I sent in my report. The stores are dirty and disorganized and the staff is rude.”

Crunch. “Hey, that’s what our client paid to know.”

“Harry, the highest grade I could give any Danessa store was Fair.”

Crunch. Crunch. “Write the truth, Josie,” he said. “And send that report ASAP. Creshan wants it today.”

“Brace yourself,” Josie said. “Danessa won’t be happy.”

“That’s her problem,” Harry said. “You let me deal with it. You just write your report. Let ’er rip.”

Josie did. She e-mailed her report to Harry, dreaming of a cold margarita and a hot bubble bath. She wouldn’t get either. Amelia had a Spanish test tomorrow. Spanish always gave her trouble.

Now Josie’s daughter stood at her bedroom door, digging one toe into the carpet. “Mom,” Amelia said, “I need help with my Spanish.”

Josie marveled at her daughter’s gorgeous skin and dramatic nose. She looked like her handsome father, not her ordinary mother. Someday, Amelia would be a beauty. Right now she was a little girl, struggling with her lessons.

“Why do I have to learn this?” Amelia whined. “I’m not going to live in Spain.”

Josie didn’t feel like giving her “Americans are isolated” speech. They’d had this argument a hundred times, and it was only September. Tonight, Josie was too tired to reason with a nine-year-old.

“Why, Mom?” Amelia’s whine was a wire in her ear.

“Because I said so,” she snapped. Josie was horrified. She sounded like her mother. Amelia didn’t notice.

Josie scurried back to the safety of the Spanish lessons. “We were looking at masculine and feminine nouns,” Josie said. “Is ‘traitor’ masculine or feminine?”

“That doesn’t make sense, Mom,” Amelia said. “It’s both. Men and women can betray people, can’t they? But in Spanish, a traitor is masculine. How come they do that, Mom?”

“Men are better at it,” Josie said.

Amelia rolled her eyes. “Oh, Mom.” She had no idea how true her mother’s words were.

Tomorrow, Josie would get a lesson in masculine betrayal.

Chapter 4

“Young lady, you are not leaving the house in that outfit.”

“Oh, Mom.”

“What kind of example are you setting for your daughter?”

Josie was wearing a pink tube top with WHITE TRASH written in rhinestones, purple short shorts that looked like they’d been applied with a paintbrush and red high-heeled sandals. Her Dolly Parton wig was down to her rear.

Josie thought the temporary tattoo on her right breast and the barbed wire tat around her ankle were the finishing touches.

“I’m an example of a working mother, and that’s one Amelia needs to see. I’m shopping General Cheeps chicken today, Mom, so I have to wear my white-trash outfit.”

Amelia cheered. “Cool! The General’s coming for dinner! We’re CHEEP! CHEEP! CHEEP!” Her daughter knew all the corporate slogans.

“Fast food is full of fat and preservatives,” Jane said.

“That’s why it’s so good, Mom. A few chemicals won’t kill the kid. She eats healthy most of the time.”

“Soy burgers are dorky,” Amelia said. “I want Five-Star Curly-Crisp, Mom.”

Definitely my daughter, Josie thought, and a true St. Louisan. This city was settled by the French, who poured sauce on everything, and the Germans, who fried their food, sugared it, or both, then served it with beer.

St. Louis culinary specialties had a heart attack in every bite. The innocent-sounding toasted ravioli were deep-fat fried. Gooey-butter cake was a baked stick of butter and a box of powdered sugar in a little square pan.

The St. Louis food philosophy was: “Might as well enjoy yourself. Nobody gets out of here alive.”

Josie’s daughter ate grease with gusto, like her mother. Amelia thought salad greens belonged in leaf bags. She liked cheeseburgers with onions and ketchup, macaroni and cheese, and fried peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches, “just like Elvis.” She also liked Elvis, but that was thanks to her grandmother. Jane openly disapproved of the child’s diet. Josie secretly encouraged her daughter’s renegade eating habits.

“If you’re going to bring that junk home for dinner, at least get some vegetables and salad,” Jane said.

“Will do,” Josie said. Just because it was on the table didn’t mean she had to eat it. Living in the same house with my mother keeps me young, Josie thought. Now I’m acting Amelia’s age.

Amelia groaned. “I hate salad.”

“Josie, wear a raincoat if you’re going out dressed like that so the neighbors won’t see you,” Jane said.

“I’ll roast in a raincoat, Mom. It’s ninety degrees.”

“Sweet tattoos, Mom,” Amelia said. That was high praise from a nine-year-old.

Great, thought Josie, as she ran out the door, Amelia in tow. My daughter will grow up to be white trash, thanks to her mother.

“Hi, Josie.” Oh, Lord. It was Stan the Man Next Door.

“Stan’s waving,” Amelia said helpfully. “I think he likes you, Mom.”

“Get in the car. It’s seven thirty.” Josie wished she had the raincoat. “We’re going to be late for school.”

She looked down and saw that her tube top had slipped. Josie pulled it up and saw Stan staring bug-eyed at her chest.

“Need any help?” he asked. “I mean, around the house?” Stan was an incurable handyman, and Josie wasn’t above taking advantage of his skills.

“The living room air conditioner is wheezing and rattling,” she said. “But I have to run Amelia to school and I’m late. I don’t really dress like this. I’m working.”

Stan’s ears turned bright red and Josie blushed. There was no point trying to explain. She threw the Honda into reverse. It lurched backward and Stan jumped out of the way.

“Mom, you nearly ran over Stan,” Amelia said.

Josie needed coffee in the worst way. But first she had to get Amelia to school before eight.

“You know how you always tell me to act more like a lady and not a boy?” Amelia said.

“Yes,” Josie said warily.

“Well, it’s not easy. Dresses are really uncool. Nobody wears them to school. But I like them. I’m just telling you this because sometimes I want to act more like a lady, but I can’t.”

“I understand,” Josie said solemnly. Amelia was so serious one minute, so silly the next, it hurt her heart. Josie treasured these car confessions. She didn’t know how much longer Amelia would tell her things.

“Can I turn the radio on 101 The River?” Amelia said.

“Go ahead,” Josie said. She could stand listening to Hilary Duff for the trip to school. She knew it was important to Amelia’s social life to hear The River in the morning.

There was no way Josie could afford the Barrington School for Boys and Girls. She had a small legacy from her Great-Aunt Tillie, but even so, the tuition was more than Josie made in a year. Fortunately, her daughter had her father’s brains. Amelia was a scholarship student with top grades in everything except the dreaded Spanish.

Amelia got the scholarship because she fit the school profile. Josie suspected it was because they lived in Maplewood, which was practically the ghetto by Barrington standards. It was an old suburb of St. Louis that looked like a city neighborhood. The homes were brick and limestone, built early in the last century.

Josie’s Honda was creeping along Manchester Road through Maplewood’s main shopping district. Josie thought Maplewood looked like an old-fashioned small town. They passed the Paramount Jewelers, with its clocks and cuff links in the window. Penzey’s Spices had the best pepper. She would take Amelia in there and say, “Snort!” and they’d breathe in the good smells until they were laughing too hard. The Switch Stand sold model trains, but Josie could never get Amelia interested in them. Josie was a sucker for train villages with water towers.

The shopping district’s plate-glass windows sparkled in the morning sun. So did the sidewalks. Some kids in Amelia’s school had never walked on a sidewalk. One boy called sidewalks “little patios.”

There were big patios, new decks and in-ground pools for most of the Barrington students. Mother and daughter drove through the old-money suburb of Ladue along wooded roads just starting to get a bit of fall color. Cicadas made their sad end-of-summer sound, and Josie thought she felt the cold winter under the last summer heat.

At 7:50, Josie flicked on her blinker to pull into the long driveway of the Barrington School. Her daughter shouted, “Stop, Mom! You can’t!”

Josie slammed on the brakes, her systems on full maternal alert. “What’s wrong?”

“You can’t go to school like that,” Amelia said.

The kid was right. Josie’s yellow tush-brushing wig and rhinestone tube top would shock the Lilly Pulitzer crowd down to their pedicured toes.

“I’ll stay in the car,” Josie said. “I promise.”

“They’ll still see you.”

Amelia’s agonized plea made Josie remember when her own mom had picked her up at school wearing a baggy brown knit hat. Jane’s hat looked like a cow patty, as that nasty Heather told Josie—and everyone else at school. Snotty girls chanted, “Patty, patty, hi, patty” whenever Josie’s mom drove up. Her mother innocently wondered who the popular Patty was, while Josie prayed for death in the seat beside Jane.