Murder on Consignment (2 page)

Rummaging around, I found a couple of ot
her boxes containing shoes, size eight, and all in nice condition. I took note of the quality, estimating that the cheapest pair would probably retail for two hundred bucks.

I had just started going through another bag when Officer Wagoner yelled, “Everything okay back here?”

“Yup. I’m ready,” I replied, reclosing the bag and standing to leave. Before walking away though, my eyes slid back to the brown packaged box with the tea set. A bad feeling settled in the pit of my stomach.

Chapter 3

This time, on the ride home, I chose
the front seat, which was enough of a thrill to momentarily shake any leftover uneasy feelings from the crime scene. After all, I hadn’t sat in the front seat of a police cruiser since Community Hero Week in elementary school when my second grade class was invited to tour the police station. I’ll never forget that field trip. My teacher must have assigned me to an errant parent chaperone, because somehow I escaped from my group and found my way into an open police cruiser. Having been one of those kids that had to touch everything, the first thing I did was hit the siren button. I can still recall how awesome the shrill screams of the siren sounded as they echoed off the concrete walls of the police parking garage.

“So you have a second-hand store, too?” Officer Wagoner asked, interrupting my thoughts.

“No, nothing like The Classy Closet, just a huge on-line store.”

“An on-line store? Can you make money doing that?”

“I manage. I also have a regular booth at the Third Saturday Flea Market,” I added.

“Cool. Sounds like fun.”

I shrugged. “It’s better than my old job, that’s for sure.”

“Oh, yeah? What was that?”

“I was an investment banker.”

“Really?”

I let the surprise; no make that the shock, in her voice roll off me. I was used to getting that reaction from people when I told them about my past life. It was as if they just couldn’t believe I’d traded the lucrative, respectable job of investment banking for my current career, which in my opinion, was still respectable, just not as lucrative. Or perhaps her analytical cop mind was secretly wondering if I became caught up in some sort of insider trading scam and was forced to leave my old career.

“Some of the
guys were saying you broke a case last year,” she said, changing the subject. “The Amanda Schmidt murder.”

I sat up a little straighter. “Well…I wouldn’t s
ay that I broke the case. I…well…I did find the murder weapon.” 

“That’s what I heard. Guess you used to date Panelli?” she prodded.

I sighed. “Yeah, used to.”

“
Panelli’s a good cop. He’s got a good reputation.”

“I’m sure he
does. He’s dating a lawyer now, Sarah Maloney,” I stated with a sideways glance.

“That’s right,” she replied, focused on the road.

I gave her the once over, wondering if I could trust her. “He seemed different today.” I squirmed in my seat. “I mean, he’s changed.”

“Changed, huh? How’s that?”

I struggled with my reply, wishing I hadn’t brought up the subject. “I don’t know. It probably sounds weird that I’m talking about it.”

“No, not at all. I think I know what you’re trying to say.”

“You do?”

“I’ll tell you something,” she said. “It’s just woman to woman though, you can’t repeat it ‘
cause it could get me into trouble, know what I’m saying?”

“Yes, sure.” I was hanging on her every word.

“I think Sarah Maloney is a little strange.”

“Strange? Sarah Maloney? She’s one of the most respected attorneys in town. She’s gorgeous, smart and probably rich.” 

She squinted my way for a second. “You sound like the president of her fan club or something.” 

“No. Not at all.
I can see why he would fall for her, that’s all.” 

We were pulling
into the alley behind my apartment. Wagoner put the gear in park and turned toward me. “She calls him a lot, like maybe fifteen times a day. At least that’s what I hear. I also see her at the precinct all the time.”

“She
is
a criminal defense lawyer.”

“No, she’s not always there on business. She’s checking up on Panelli. It’s starting to cause trouble, too. Everyone’s getting sick of it.” 

“Really?” I was trying to keep the delight out of my voice.

“Really. So, if you think he’s changed, that’s probably the reason. Sarah Maloney is driving him crazy,” she added with a mischievous little wink.

I did a double take, not sure if I heard her correctly. I hoped I had. I’d like nothing more than to have a second chance with Sean. 

*

Inside my apartment, I tore off the too-tight blazer, kicked my way through a few laundry piles and flopped on the sofa. What I needed was a nap. However, I no sooner began to close my eyes when my cell rang. I scrambled to retrieve the phone from the blazer’s pocket, but shouldn’t have bothered—it was Cherry.

“You hung up on me earlier. That’s no way for a maid of honor to act.”

“Sorry. But technically I’m just a fill-in.”

“Uh, huh. Well, I didn’t get a chance to tell you about your fitting.”

“Fitting?”

“Yes, in case the dress needs to be altered. You’ll need to go in today.”

“I can’t. It’ll have to wait a couple of days.”

She muttered something I couldn’t quite understand. “You’ll have to go today. The wedding’s in less than two weeks.”

“All right, fine. It’ll have to be tomorrow, though.” I was using my spare hand to open my kitchen cupboard. I rummaged past packages of chocolate cookies, a bottle of wine, a couple boxes of macaroni and cheese, and some miniature candy bars, finally settling on the cookies.

“Are you
really
going to go tomorrow?” 

“Sure. No problem.” I popped a cookie in my mouth and reached back in for the wine bottle. “What size is Willow?  Maybe I won’t need to have it altered.”

“She’s a six.”

A
six
! I shoved the cookies aside. “I’ll go first thing in the morning.”

“Good. It’s at
Brenda’s Bridal Boutique. Call me if there’s any problem.” 

A problem, I thought, hanging up.
A problem?  Well, let’s see… I didn’t want to be in this stupid wedding, I looked horrible in orange, and there’s no way I’m going to be able to squeeze my behind into a size six dress.

I popped the cork and rifled through the cabinet for a clean glass. Finding a stadium cup tucked in the back, I filled it to the bri
m and snatched the cookies off the counter. I knew I shouldn’t, but my stress level was on overdrive.

Settling on
the sofa, I crunched my way through half the bag and surfed channels until I found a Matlock rerun. Well…at least something good had come of the day. Munchies, Merlot, and Matlock—the three M’s; a magic combination almost as good as the three S’s—Sugar, Shopping, and Sex. Not that I’d hit on all three of the S’s in a long time.

*

The next morning, I awoke to someone pounding on my door. I reluctantly rolled off the sofa, brushed off some cookie crumbs, maneuvered around a couple stacks of boxes, and reached the door just as the bellowing started, “Phillipena, answer this door!”

I braced myself before opening. “Hi, Mom.” 

As usual, my mother was impeccably dressed in a light grey pinstriped suit unbuttoned to reveal a cobalt blue blouse and her signature pearls. I had to hand it to her: she knew how to set off her best features—her intense blue eyes and her knock-out figure. I didn’t inherit her talent for fashion or her figure.

“I’m here to take you to the bridal shop,” she said, offering a small hug before breezing by me. “Your Aunt Maeve called last night. She said Cher
ry was in a tizzy, worried you weren’t going to get your fitting. She doesn’t think you’re taking your bridesmaid responsibilities seriously.” 

I watched as mom circled my apartment, her heels clicking against the wood planks. She seemed to be checking out my current acquisitions. “Have you been busy, dear?” she asked.

“Not really,” I admitted. “Curbside acquisitions are down. Probably due to the economy, people just aren’t discarding like they used to. On the plus side, consignment stores are being bombarded with merchandise and in response are reducing the mark-up on resale items.”

Even to me, that spiel sounded like something out of the mouth of the current Chairman of the Federal Reserve. For some reason, I always felt like I needed to glamorize my profession, especially to my mother. Although she always says she’s proud of me, I know th
at both she and Dad wished I would get a normal, respectable job. Something like my old position at Global Financial Trading, Inc. Back then I drove a Lexus and wore expensive suits. I dined at five-star restaurants and shopped the Mag Mile. I had a brownstone apartment two blocks from Wrigley that made even the most expensive furniture store showroom look like a candidate for a HGTV makeover. Although, what I had the most of was stress—major stress accompanied by high blood pressure and an extra twenty pounds around the hips. Hard telling where I’d be today if I hadn’t decided to leave the corporate world and pursue a career in used merchandising.

Unlike me, my mother could easily handle the pressure of a successful, demanding career. Not only did
she raise us five girls, she obtained her real estate broker license, opened shop and climbed to the top. Everyone knew Maureen O’Brien—her face was plastered on real estate signs all over the city.

Of course, she had lots of help from my father. My mother and father were like Yin and Yang: two opposites which fit together and formed one great team. Mom was the bread-winner, while Dad, more of the quiet, intellectual type, tended to the everyday tasks of running a family. When he wasn’t working as a part-time librarian at Community Union library, he was busy making dinner, washing clothes, and doing the grocery shopping.  My father was one of the original “Mr. Moms”—and he was good at it.

“I presume you’re going to put on some makeup and change into something decent before we go.” Mom was browsing through a bag of clothing I’d bought at rock bottom prices from a garage sale in an upscale Lisle neighborhood. “Hey, there are some nice pieces in here,” she said, holding up a scoop-necked blouse.

“Do you want that?”

“Oh thanks, dear. But it’s really not my color.” She stuffed it back into the bag and crossed over to my personal closet. “You go get cleaned up and I’ll find something for you to wear. I have a showing at one o’clock, but maybe we can squeeze in lunch after the fitting. Go on…get moving!”

I obeyed and scurried into the bathroom. I rinsed, brushed, a
nd swiped on some makeup as quickly as I could, all the while wondering what my mother was going to come up with for me to wear. My wardrobe was limited.

“Mom! What are you doing?” I hit panic mode when I saw her rummaging through the plastic bins stacked on kitc
hen counter. “That’s stuff I’m getting ready to list!”

“I know, but the only things I found in your closet were jeans and T-shirts. Oh … look at this!”

She’d pulled out a pretty floral skirt and a coordinating button-down blouse.

“This is perfect, don’t you think?  It looks like your size, too,” she said, obviously proud of her efforts.

“I can’t wear that blouse.” I pointed to the tags that dangled from the lapel. “I have to sell it NWT.”

“NWT?”

“New with tags. It’s worth more that way.”

“Where are the scissors?”  

“What?” I watched as she carried the blouse across the room to my coffee table, where I package boxes for shipping, and found a pair of scissors. With a swift sinister snip, she removed the tag and depreciated twenty-five percent of the garment’s resale value.

My jaw dropped. “Mom! That’s going to cost me about ten bucks!”

“Oh, relax. I said I’d buy lunch, didn’t I? Now put this on and let’s get going. Time’s wasting.”

Chapter 4

As soon as I walked into Brenda
’s Bridal Shop, I was glad my mom had dared to snip. This was definitely not a jeans and T-shirt type of place. “Is Cherry paying for the dress or am I?” I asked, looking around and feeling a huge price tag coming on.

“Don’t worry. Chuck and Maeve are covering the cost,” she said, directing me to the front desk where a girl who looked eerily like Cinderella, or maybe it was
Brendarella, was waiting for us with a frozen smile on her face. Suddenly it occurred to me that this whole shop was like a royal ball waiting on the fairy tale princess to appear. The walls were painted three shades of pink which coordinated with the pink rugs on the floor and heavy pink drapes cinched with golden tassels. Everywhere I looked there seemed to be something sparkly: sparkly purses, sparkly shoes, and sparkly veils. There was even a display of sparkly rhinestone-studded tiaras nestled on a table covered in pink satin. Adding to the effect, a dozen mannequins attired in long, puffed-sleeved, pastel-colored gowns seemed to hover over the floor as if they were suddenly frozen mid-dance. I kept my ears peeled for the trumpeters as Mom introduced us and our mission to the clerk.

“I can certainly help you with that, Mrs. O’Brien,” the clerk was saying to Mom. “Let me get the dress and
have the seamstress measure her for the adjustments.” Brendarella was giving me a disapproving up and down look so I threw back my shoulders and sucked it in. Somewhere I’d heard that good posture took off an instant ten pounds.

I continued to keep my gut sucked in as I strolled around and pretended to study the displays with interest. I had some fun with a couple of tiaras before moving on to the display of little squishy silicone breasts inserts that promised to make any bride go from a B to a double D in seconds. I wasn’t all that interested in the displays, though; what I was really doing was avoiding too much contact with my mother. I knew that while we were actually
in
a bridal shop, any conversation between us could only be focused on one thing—my impending marriage or lack thereof. It bothered Mom that, except for my sister “the sister,” I was the only O’Brien girl that wasn’t happily married and busy adding little twigs to the O’Brien family tree. 

Luckily I didn’t have to avoid her for too long, as Brenda soon retur
ned, followed by a stout woman carrying a cushion of pins and wearing a measuring tape around her neck like a doctor’s stethoscope. 

In Brenda’s hand was the ugliest dress I had ever seen.

“Oh my!” I heard my mother exclaim. “Is
that
the dress?”

Brenda answered with a slight raise of her brow and a nod toward the back of the store. “There’s a fitting room right around the corner.”

I followed as Brenda directed me down a long hall of curtained doors, shoved me and the pumpkin-colored atrocity into the room and ripped a heavy pink curtain across a wooden rod. “Let me know if you have any problems,” she said.

After a long spell of shimmying, pulling, shimmying, and more pulling, I managed to get the ugly thing over my hips. Sweat was dripping from my brow and my hair was frizzed around my face like a halo when I finally emerged from the dressing room.

“What took you so long?” Mom asked, spinning me around. “You’re not zipped.” She began yanking with all her might. “Suck it in,” she ordered.

“I can’t. Stop!” My arms flailed
like a ragdoll as she viciously worked the zipper.

“Well, come on then,” she sighed, giving up the effort. “They’re waiting for us down the hall.”

I felt like an orange wrapped mummy. The dress was so tight around my thighs I could barely walk. Mom kept one hand on my elbow as I shuffled like a shackled inmate down a long hall of pink curtained chambers. We finally worked our way into a mirrored room where a skinny little twenty-something was perched on a carpeted block with a white sequined train flowing behind her. The seamstress was pinning up extra material while an entourage of blissful supporters stood by gushing with compliments. 

“I’ll be with you in
a second,” the seamstress said as my pumpkin-colored reflection slid into the mirror next to the soon-to-be Mrs. Happiness and her fifteen thousand dollar wedding gown. I heard a few gasps and giggles from the bride-to-be’s posse, confirming what I already knew—this dress was a joke.

I ignored the girls and struck a few poses in the mirror trying to keep an open mind about the dress. It was a strapless design with a figure-hugging bodice and a large double ruffle around the bust line. The ruffle was ugly, but it did serve to cover the
rolls of fat that spilled from my armpits. “What do you think, Mom?” 

“Uh
…well…,” she sputtered. A first for Mom, usually she could find something diplomatic to say about everything.

The seamstress helped the bride off the block and moved over to me. “Let’s see,” she said, pinching and pulling at the fabric. Then wielding her measuring tape, she worked every angle of my body with dogged determi
nation. “I think what we’ll need to do is take some material from the hem and sew in a panel in the back. The dress will be a little shorter than intended, but it should work.” 

We all tried hard not to stare at the two inch, flesh-colored gap protruding from the back of the dress.

“I’ll make a few more measurements and see what I can do,” the seamstress offered.

Bren
da poked her head into the room and addressed the seamstress, “Doris, you’re eleven o’clock fitting is here.” 

“Send her in.
I’m just finishing here,” Doris answered, making a couple quick notes. I wished her luck and turned to leave. I’d almost shuffled my way back to the dressing room hallway when in walked Sarah Maloney. We stopped face to face, regarding one another with shocked interest. She looked like an angel adorned in the most beautiful wedding gown I’d ever seen; I, on the other hand, was looking like a rotting veggie. 

Of course, I recognized her instantly, but I think she was
a little baffled by me. We’d only run into each other a couple of times when I was still dating Sean. She studied me for a moment, looking me up and down. Then, with a twinkle in her eye and a smile tugging at her lips she moved aside to let me pass. “Excuse me, Phillipena,” she said, arrogance tinting her tone.

My gap of protruding flesh in mind, I immediately turned away from her and started shuffling backwards down
the hall. Mom, oblivious to whole scene, was still asking Doris questions. “Are you sure you’ll be able to add enough material to make the dress fit?” Then, “Is it too late to order a couple of sizes up? I’d be happy to pay for express shipping.”

Appalled, I tried to shuffle faster. Unfortunately, that wasn’t so easy with chiffon-bound thighs. With a sharp rip of fabric, I fell flat on my bootie. After catching my breath, I struggled on the ground for a moment. The dress was so tight, I couldn’t bend my legs enough to get back up. Finally, in a last ditch effort, I rolled over on my stomach, dug in my toes, and did a
little push-up. By walking my hands back to my feet, I was able to form an inverted “V” with my body. Then, with one final hoist, I was upright. I turned and scurried the best I could down the hall; Sarah’s laughter following me all the way.

I changed in record time and was waiting by the car when mom finally came out of the shop. “Phillipena, what in the world is going on with you? I’m so embarrassed. Not to mention the dress. Who knows if they’ll be
able to fix it now? You tore the side seam. Then, you just left it waded up on the floor of the…”

I held up
my hand. “I know. I’m sorry, okay? Let’s just get out of here.”

We rode in silence for a few blocks before she asked me, “Who was that woman in the bridal gown, anyway? Do you know her?”

“She’s Sean’s new girlfriend…or fiancé, I guess. Sarah Maloney.”

“Oh, I see,” she said. “I thought you were over him.”

“Well, I’m not, okay?  Let’s drop it.” My voice was shaky and tears were threatening to spill. I shifted in my seat, turning my face away and pretended to study the passing scene out my window.

She sighed, “Can I treat you to some lunch? Wong’s Stir Fry is just down the road. I know how you love stir fry.”

Ugh. I used to eat there all the time with
him
. Of course, there really wasn’t any place I hadn’t been with him. In the three plus years we dated, Sean and I practically ate our way through all of Naperville and several of the nearby burbs. “No thanks, Mom. I’m really not up to it. Besides, I’ve got a lot of work I should be doing.”

Her posture stiffened slightly. I knew she wasn’t going to let the issue drop. “I understand,” she started, paused, and then had to add, “but let’s talk about this. Tell me what’s going on with you. I’ve noticed that you haven’t been dating at all these
days. If you’ve been holding out for Sean, well…you can let that go now. Obviously, he’s serious about this girl or she wouldn’t be trying on wedding gowns.”

I groaned. “Please, Mom, please! I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I’m just saying it’s not healthy, that’s all. You should be moving on by now. Do you remember when your sister broke up with that boy from DePaul, what was his name…?”

I sighed. “Bobby Nolan.”

“Yes, that’s right. Bobby Nolan. Anyway, Anne was completely heartbroken. She was so sure she’d never find anyone else and look at her now. She’s found a wonderful husband, lives in a great neighborhood, and is already expecting
… blah … blah … blah
.” 

I tuned her out, my mind veering off on its own path. That would be the path to destruction, or more specifically self-destruction. I was working myself into a terrible funk allowing my thoughts
to dwell on my ex’s pending nuptials and my own lonely, pathetic existence.

“Phillipena, are you listening to me?” I snapped back to attention. “I was saying that you should
join that singles group at church. I’m sure there are a lot of nice men there.”

Thank goodness we were pulling into the driveway. “That’s a great idea, Mom. I’ll look into it,” I promised as I hopped out and headed immediately for the hedges that separated my parents’ yard from the back alley and the entrance to my above-garage apartment.

“I’ll let you know when the final fitting is scheduled,” she yelled after me. “And don’t forget to call the church!”

*

I immediately peeled off my shopping outfit, planning to wash and return it to my resale stockpile as soon as possible. After throwing on my most comfy stretch pants and a favorite hoodie, I went directly to the fridge and stopped. There, stuck with a magnet was the note I hung the previous day, CHECK YOUR EMOTIONS. It was to remind me to stop and think about my emotional state before opening the fridge. I got the idea the other day while I was standing in the checkout line at ValueMart, stocking up on chocolate and soda. One of the magazines boasted the headline—
No More Emotional Food Binges
. The article suggested posting verbal reminders to help keep unbalanced eating in check. I thought it was a great idea. I posted little reminders everywhere, even in the bathroom where just last week, I downed an entire bag of chocolate chip cookies while soaking in a hot bath.

I paused and checked my emotions;
Damn, I hate that Sarah Maloney
! But, was eating a thousand calories going to help me feel better? I thought about how great she looked in her wedding gown and how horrible I looked in the pumpkin-colored disaster. I drew in a deep breath. No, I didn’t need the extra calories.

I opened the fridge and, with all the self-control I could muster, moved past the left-over pizza, past the soda and chocolate pudding cups, and extracted a low-fat yogurt. Proud of myself, I took my healthy food choice to the computer and settled in for a couple hours of work. I had been lazy the last couple of weeks and didn’t have my usual amount
of items listed on-line. I also noticed several people hadn’t paid their invoices and I was a little behind packaging and mailing. I really needed to ramp up my efforts. Besides, busy-work would help keep my mind off Sean.

Since school had
started, I focused on kid’s clothes. I cleared a large spot in the middle of the room and pulled out a half dozen plastic bins marked “Fall-Kids.” After an hour of sorting by size, I was able to put together fifteen lots of brand name clothes. I carefully arranged and photographed each lot before bagging them into separate, numbered bags. Then, after grabbing another yogurt, I downloaded the photos, typed descriptions and listed them on-line. I was a day behind this week. Usually, I preferred to do seven-day listings ending on Sunday afternoon. That way, the end-of-auction bidding would occur when most people were off work and in front of their computers. However, looking at my on-line bank account balance, I needed to get some things moving now.

After finishing my listings, I moved to packaging. The living area of my apartment served as shipping and handling. At any one time, there were enough boxes, strapping tape, and sharpies between my sofa and television to supply an entire UPS store.

I flipped on the television, printed off a couple dozen address labels, double checked my mailing list, and went to work wrapping, stuffing, and taping. A couple of infomercials later, I had a stack of tidy boxes ready to be shipped, not to mention the order number for an
Abomizer
, a neat little contraption that was guaranteed to whittle my flabby abs into sculpted six pack in just five days. Which would be a good thing to order, since in a little over a week, I was going to be paraded in front of two hundred wedding guests while wearing a veggie-colored bridesmaid dress.