Getting Dumped (17 page)

“So where are we going again?” Lori asked, jumping into the passenger seat and fastening her seatbelt. “And why am I coming along?”

“We’re going to the martini bar on Seventh,” I told her. “And you’re coming because Mindy can drink her own body weight in vodka. I might need someone to help get her home. Besides, you can help me watch for clues.”

“Clues?” Lori asked. “What are you now, Landfill Supersleuth?”

“Don’t be a smartass or I won’t let you be my fabulous sidekick.”

“Elementary, my dear Wats-in-your-trash-bin.”

“Great. A sidekick with bad puns. Just what I need.”

Lori flipped her visor down and checked her lipstick. “So why are we interrogating Whatshername?”

“Mindy. Her name is Mindy Wallace, and I think she might have owned a fake Chanel handbag that turned up at the dump today.”

“You busting her for it?”

“No, I’m not busting her for it. I’m not even sure it’s hers. I just happened to find something inside that only a handful of people would have had, and Mindy’s my best guess since she prides herself on being a fashionista.”

“A fashionista with a bad fake.”

“It was actually a pretty good fake. Anyway, I just want to find out where she got the bag. Maybe if we can figure that out, it’ll lead us to Macy.”

“I doubt Mindy’s going to admit she bought it out of the back of some guy’s Gran Torino in Northeast Portland,” Lori said. “Not without some serious arm-twisting.”

“Or heavy drinking. So have you heard anything from Macy?”

“No,” she replied, frowning a little. “I tried calling her boyfriend to see if he’d heard from her, but there’s no answer. I actually pulled out the application she filled out when she came to work for me a couple years ago to see if she listed any family members as emergency contacts.”

“And?”

“Her aunt.”

“I thought they were estranged.”

“That’s what Macy always said, but she still listed her on the application. Anyway, I called this morning.”

“Did you reach anyone?”

“Yes, but she was kind of distracted. Apparently she was in the middle of a massage.”

“Giving one, or getting one?” I asked. “Never mind, it’s weird to answer the phone either way. So what did she say about Macy?”

“Hasn’t seen her for more than a year. Apparently there was some sort of falling out over a corned beef sandwich. I didn’t ask for details.”

“Did you tell her we’re worried?”

“Yes. She seemed confused by that. She seemed confused in general, now that I think about it.”

“What about her uncle?”

Lori bit her lip. “I don’t have his number. I guess I could try the phone book, but I’m not sure how he’d be listed.”

“In the yellow pages under mobsters.”

Lori sighed. “We don’t know for sure—”

“I know. Let’s look into it, okay? I mean, maybe we’re not to the point yet where we need to be contacting all her relatives, but I just have a bad feeling.”

“I know.” Lori was quiet for a moment. “Me too.”

We both fell silent then, each of us lost in our thoughts about fake handbags and missing interns. Neither of us said a word until we were a few blocks from the bar.

“So I’m the muscle here with Mindy?” Lori asked. “Maybe we want to decide on a cue that means you want me to put her in a headlock?”

“Why don’t we just focus on my plan?”

“Which is?”

“Buy her enough dirty martinis that she confides all her secrets.”

“Got it. Good plan.”

When we walked into the martini bar, Mindy was already halfway through an extra-large dirty martini with four olives. She looked up at us with a glazed expression, making me suspect she’d misunderstood my suggestion that we meet at 6:30. She appeared to have been anchoring the barstool since breakfast.

“Mindy, have you met my sister Lori?” I said, moving around the table to give her a hug.

Mindy stood up and swayed, then hugged the waitress.

“Sure, sure, we met at that thing for that guy,” Mindy slurred before dropping back onto her stool.

“Right,” Lori said, sliding onto the barstool beside Mindy.

Lori smiled up at our puzzled waitress, who was wiping Mindy’s lipstick off her ear.

“I’ll have a gin and tonic,” Lori said. “A small one.”

“Lemon drop,” I told her, stealing a glance at Mindy’s empty glass. “And, um, another one of those for her. Virgin.”

“Does she have a ride?” the waitress asked, looking concerned.

“We’ll get her home safely,” Lori assured her. “And we’ll make sure she doesn’t fall into the hands of anyone who would take advantage of her inebriated state by interrogating her or anything like that.”

The waitress hustled off to get the drinks, and I turned back to Mindy.

“So how have things been at the hospital?” I asked, slipping into professional networking mode. “Your boss still doing that thing where he adjusts his balls when he thinks no one’s looking?”

“Hospital?” Mindy asked, fishing her fingers into her drink to pull out an olive. She sucked out the pimento, choking a little before she got it down. She looked up at me again, seeming to recall I’d asked a question. “Hospital. Right. Thanks, but I’m actually feeling totally fine. It’s just a little constipation.”

“Okay then,” I said, shooting a warning glance at my snickering sister. Lori bit her lip and reached up to take the glasses our waitress was passing around.

“So I don’t know if you heard, but I took a job in a different county department,” I tried again. “I’m not even in PR and marketing anymore.”

“Are you still dating that one guy?”

“Who?” I asked.

“
One
guy?” Lori asked with a giggle. “Try three.”

Distracted again, Mindy reached over to the next table and grabbed the lime off another woman’s glass. Anchoring it on the side of her own glass, Mindy smiled contentedly down at her beverage. Then she reached over and took the woman’s drink.

Lori snorted and choked on her gin and tonic. I ignored her, focusing my attention on Mindy.

Mindy downed the drink and set the glass back on the table. Then she shoved another olive in her mouth and chewed, regarding me with a thoughtful look. “Have you ever French kissed another woman?”

Lori toppled off her barstool, snorting with mirth. I grabbed her by the arm of my sweater and hoisted her back onto her seat, fixing her with a scowl.

I looked back at Mindy, who was using the camera on her cell phone to take a photo down the front of her blouse.

“So Mindy,” I said, glancing at my sister one more time as she struggled to compose herself. “That’s a great bag you have there. Where’d you get it?”

“This? Nordth— Norssshtr— Nurdstro—” She stopped and pressed her lips together. “Nordys.”

“Sure,” said Lori, staring fixedly at the black patent leather satchel hooked on the back of Mindy’s chair. I could tell her counterfeit radar was operating on high as she scoped out the stitching, the hardware, the label. Evidently satisfied that the bag was authentic, my sister turned her attention back to Mindy.

“So JJ here was telling me you’ve got a really great eye for fashion,” Lori chirped. “I’ve been trying to be more fashionable. Got any tips for me?”

“Oh, well, that’s sweet,” Mindy said with a hiccup. “What do you want to know?”

“Um, I don’t know. How about where to score bargains on great accessories?”

Mindy sniffed and hoisted her glass. “Well, I can’t say I know very much about that. Gotsta pay top dollar for great fashion and all that. Finding the best bargain is sooooooo not the point.”

“Sure, sure,” Lori said, waving her hand impatiently. “But we all cut corners from time to time, right? Am I right?”

Mindy gave her a blank stare and hiccupped again. I sighed and tried another approach.

“So Mindy,” I began, watching as she drained the fresh martini our waitress had just set in front of her. “You travel much? Bangkok maybe?”

“What?” Mindy said, setting down her glass and staring at me blankly. “Is this about my boss and that thing he does with his balls?”

I picked up my drink and downed half of it, thinking Mindy might be easier to deal with through a vodka-infused haze. Mindy had already forgotten the conversation, intent as she was on sticking her finger in the hummus that had arrived at the neighboring table.

Lori folded her arms at me and glared. “Bangkok? That’s the best you’ve got?”

“What?” I hissed. “Thailand’s a common place to get designer fakes.”

“No shit, Sherlock. But you don’t really think Loopy here is traveling for her fashion?”

We both looked at Mindy, who was unbuttoning her blouse.

“Do you want to trade shirts?” she asked, eyeing my top. “I like purple.”

“Um, thanks, that’s okay,” I said, setting the rest of my drink in front of her with the faint hope of distracting her from the urge to strip. Mindy let go of her shirt and smiled down at the glass with obvious delight.

“So Mindy,” Lori tried again, “A friend of mine really likes to buy fake handbags. It’s a really terrible habit, I know, and she’s really trying to stop. But I was just curious where someone like that might buy something like – oh, I don’t know. A nice Chanel knockoff.”

Swaying on her stool, Mindy reached out and grabbed Lori’s shoulder to steady herself. She blinked at her intently, looking serious for the first time all evening.

“You should never buy fake handbags. Ever. Do you hear me? Serioussshly. That’s like the worst thing imaginable. That’s like – like wearing pantyhose or something.”

“Really?” Lori said, frowning at Mindy.

“Absolutely. Totally wrong. It’s like – über tacky. Is that German?”

“Sure,” Lori said, taking another swig of her drink before setting it down and shooting a sidelong look at me.

“Seriously, it just screams
trashy
,” Mindy said, her voice rising a little. “
Trashy
!”

“Trashy,” I repeated, feeling more uncertain.

“So let that be a lesson to you,” Mindy said, satisfied. She reached over and drained the rest of Lori’s drink.

“So you’re telling me you’ve never owned a fake handbag?” Lori said. “Not a Prada or a Louis or a Coach?”

“No!” Mindy declared. “Never. Never ever ever ever.”

“Okay,” I said, not sure whether I believed her, but pretty sure she was going to fall off her chair if she kept shaking her head like that.

Mindy stopped shaking and looked at me. “There’s this one girl in my office, Gretchen?”

“Gretchen,” I repeated, running through my mental Rolodex. “Is she the one with the—”

“Nose job.”

“I was going to say
brown hair
.”

“Gretchen showed up at the last networking luncheon with the ugliest fake Chanel you’ve ever seen,” she said, leaning forward conspiratorially and setting her boob in her drink. “She was so snotty about it, but it was the most obvious fake you’ve ever seen. It was supposed to look like a signature toast.” She paused, then scrunched her forehead in concentration. “Signature
totes
. But the Ligne Cambon logo was stamped on there instead of engraved. Can you imagine?”

“I can’t,” I told her, sliding a look at my sister. Now we were getting somewhere. “Did you say something to her about it?”

“Better than that,” Mindy said smugly, leaning back with a wet ring around her boob. “I dumped a jar of mustard in it at lunch.”

“You what?” Lori and I said in unison.

“I said it was an accident, but
duh
! Sooooo not an accident. You know? The bag was ruined. She had to throw it out.”

“Was this, um, recently?” I asked, signaling our waitress for the check.

“Just last week,” Mindy said. “Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

“What?”

“Don’t tell.”

“Oh. Right.”

“And don’t judge,” Mindy said, hiking up the hem of her skirt to scratch her left butt cheek.

I held up my hand in a vow of solemn sisterhood. “I’d never dream of it.”

BY THE TIME we’d gotten Mindy safely home and Lori had helped me swab the drool off my dashboard, it was nearly 9 p.m. Considering how early I had to get up the next morning, I was already thinking about which portions of my evening ritual could be skipped in favor of getting a few extra minutes of sleep. Was it really vital to brush my teeth every night? I suspected Burt would know the answer.

I was jamming my key into the lock on my front door when I heard a sound behind me.

Footsteps.

My heart sped up, and my hand started to shake. I abandoned fumbling for the keyhole and instead slid my hand into the front pocket of my handbag. My fingers closed around the little canister of pepper spray I’d never needed to use.

Until now.

More footsteps. I tightened my grip on the can.

Behind me, someone cleared his throat.

I took a deep breath and whirled around.

“Hey—”

I screamed and pressed the trigger. Then I kicked my attacker in the shin.

There was a point where I couldn’t actually tell who was screaming louder – me or Pete.

“Stop, JJ, stop spraying!”

“Pete? Ohmygod, I’m so sorry, is that you?”

He was hopping around on one leg, alternately grabbing his shin where I’d kicked him and trying to shield his eyes from my pepper spray.

I stopped spraying.

He stopped jumping and lowered his hands, revealing the familiar chiseled cheekbones, familiar dark hair, familiar bottle-green eyes.

Actually, the eyes were looking a little red.

I dropped the pepper spray canister and stared, going from fear to remorse to anger all in a ten second span.

“What the hell were you thinking jumping out and scaring me like that?” I demanded.

“I didn’t jump,” he sputtered, yanking up the hem of his T-shirt to mop at his eyes. I looked away, not wanting the beauty of his washboard abs to dampen my fury.

“I came right up your walkway, perfectly obvious,” he said from behind his shirt, coughing a little. “Not my fault your back was turned. You know, you really should get some extra porch lights on the side of the house. Oh, and FYI, that was the same shin you kicked the other day in your sister’s shop.”

“What the hell are you doing here at 9 p.m. on a Tuesday night?” I shrieked. I knew I sounded angry, but I was really just scared as hell.