Shop and Let Die (12 page)

He leaned back into his
truck and closed his window as I climbed into my car, glad to be
closer to the pepper spray. He sat watching me fumble with my
seatbelt, the papers, the can of olives, obviously not intending to
move on until I was long gone.

No more pictures. I had a
feeling that was a bad thing, but I didn’t dare open up the
instructions and read them there. Nosy guy was no stranger to the
area. The way he’d known how long it had been since Pete’s was last
open for business screamed long-time local. He waved a friendly
wave as I drove away. I hoped he could not see how badly my hands
were shaking as they gripped the wheel.

My encounter with nosy guy
shook me more than I might have expected. Between the adrenalin
from that encounter and the rush from talking with real face to
face adults, the top of my head felt as if it might blow off. I
caught myself going 20 miles over the speed limit in an area well
known to have traps and decided to go home, rather than to the
library as I’d been planning.

I needed some down time
before I picked up the kids. My morning yoga routine — stretching
and a sun salutation in the space between my bed and dresser — had
reminded me that vacuuming was a form of exercise—and one sorely
needed at my house.

At least, behind my nice
sturdy locked door I wouldn’t be subject to any nosy guy
interventions. Even if the Jehovah witnesses came to the door, I
could pretend I wasn’t home. They wouldn’t know. Or, if they did, I
could just refuse to be guilty.

I’d heard of other mystery
shoppers being accosted—even thrown out of stores—but I’d never had
the problem myself before. And, to be honest, Nosy Guy hadn’t
really accosted me, he’d just been “friendly” in that small town
way some people had of letting you know they were there to nudge
you on your way should you be up to no good.

If I hadn’t been feeling
so guilty, I suppose I might have been reassured there was someone
like Nosy Guy around in such a deserted location. Of course, Nosy
Guy could have been Serial Killer Guy just as easily. It’s hard to
tell the difference, until you get away alive.

Which is why I thought I’d
pass up the tire and auto shops from now on. Better to stick to
coffee, lingerie, and cosmetics. And spas…if I ever got so
lucky.

I had time to check the dating site while the
kids were doing their homework. Still rattled from Nosy Cowboy Guy,
I soothed myself by getting deep into Serena mode.

Too deep. There was really
no question that I shouldn’t have taken advantage of my privileges
to look at the man. After all, I was nothing but a ringer doing a
job. I was shocked to feel the thrill of knowing I was in a world
where they would have thrown me out instantly if they knew who I
really was.

I spent an hour pretending
to decide whether I preferred a man with old money who liked to
travel or a man with new money who wanted a woman who would help
him make more. And then I came down to earth with a thump when I
realized that if I answered anyone’s questions honestly, they would
not only dump me, they’d laugh at me.

“
Did you hear, there was a
woman who wore K-mart sweat shirts and drove Wednesday carpool who
wanted a date with me.” The laughter would be riotous—all at my
expense.

I didn’t belong in this
world—I belonged in the world of the PTA drones and the university
satellites. Well, I didn’t exactly belong there either. I’m not
sure where I belonged, come to think of it. I hadn’t liked the
nine-to-five work world, the late night shift I’d had when the kids
were tiny was the pits.

Maybe I
did
belong in the world
of silver spoons? Wearing…who was the latest designer?…Chanel? No,
that was a perfume. I knew because I sold it when I worked at a
drug store during college.

I suppose I was more
comfortable with cookie dough than caviar. But a woman can dream,
can’t she?

And I was in the mood to
dream—big time. All the what ifs I hadn’t entertained in so long.
Not since I married Seth and started working on our life together.
Which was nothing like what I’d imagined it would be.

I kept waiting for the
moment that I would fit in. That people would look at me as if I
were the one who had it all together. I was old enough to know that
even the women who looked like they had it all together didn’t
really. But somehow, people could tell how far away I was from
having it all together within the first ten minutes of meeting me.
Maybe it was the clothes. Or maybe it was my annoying habit of
spilling the beans on my latest difficulty right after I said,
“Hello.”

I don’t think winning the
lottery would help me with that bad habit. Even
I
got tense when I felt confession
hour coming on. From the pained expressions of those around me, I
wasn’t the only one who wished I’d learn to
pretend
I had it all
together.

Of course, with money I’d
have a staff. I wouldn’t have to try to figure out why the wall
between the kitchen and the garage was growing mold and sometimes
looked wet. I’d be able to get a plumber in on emergency rates, and
then throw money at them so that they would push off all their
other jobs and take care of mine right away.

No more waiting with
bailing bucket in hand for Monday morning, when plumbers could be
called at day rates. And no more agreeing to an appointment 3 days
after I called. No. If I…but I was getting carried away. I didn’t.
And I wouldn’t.

Seth and I were steady
enough, we weren’t going to be living out of our car unless the
apocalypse happened. But we were never going to be able to call a
plumber on emergency rates.

I put away the fantasy of
silk and satin (as if I wouldn’t look like an upholstered sofa in
them anyway).

I have to confess, the
idea of dating someone online has always seemed skanky to me. Even
face-to-face, people lie, the guys who say you’re amazing and make
you feel like “the one” when they never call again. Or the ones who
are smart, funny, sweet, and you love them…like a
brother.

Chemistry can’t be
discounted, and I don’t believe for a moment that it travels over
the internet through email. How horrible must it be to fall in love
with someone’s mind and find out you’re not at all attracted to his
body?

I wondered what kind of
online dater I’d have been if I was a young woman nowadays? I
certainly wouldn’t be able to afford an exclusive club, so I’d
probably have to do one of the free sites that my single friends
tell me have ads popping up for Viagra and feminine deodorant every
20 seconds. Or sometimes gambling ads, as if poker and dating were
somehow related sports.

I told the man who wanted
to know Serena’s hair color that I was l’Oreal Ash Blonde #57 even
though I’m actually dishwater brown with a rime of gray. I had a
momentary panic attack when I realized that everybody who was
anybody probably went to a salon. I’d exposed my mystery shopper
status with an inadvertently gauche response.

I told the man who wanted
to know if Serena painted her toenails, yes (I don’t). I was
stopped cold by one guy’s simple query: “Do you think you’re the
kind of person who will make your own biggest dreams come
true?”

I had, at first, thought
he was asking if I could make his dreams come true, and then I
realized he was asking something much deeper and more personal. And
I didn’t have a clue how Serena would answer.

Would she answer with
arrogance, “I’ve made every dream I’ve ever had come true, and I
always will.” Or would she be flirty and coy and say, “You’ll have
to get to know me better before I tell you my dreams—but I think
you’ll like the answer.”

The one thing I was sure
of was that she would never give my automatic answer, “Sometimes
making your dreams come true turns them into
nightmares.”

For some reason, though, I
wanted to shock him. To reach him as he’d reached me with his
question, probably chosen out of a book of on-line dating
advice.

So I typed in my answer,
not hers. And I hit send before I could change my mind.

And then I turned off the
monitor and went to wash a load of towels and get a casserole ready
to toss in the oven for dinner once my afternoon chauffeuring was
done.

As I separated whites, I
dealt with the consequences of my impulsiveness. This was the best
paying mystery shop I’d gotten. A massage shop was on the line.
Possibly more. I hoped I wouldn’t make him mad enough to complain
to the company about my alter ego’s mordancy.

I decided, as I started
the machine, that I wouldn’t mention it to Seth.

CHAPTER TEN

The Serena Effect

As I started to unload the dishwasher, still
steamy from its cycle, I checked in to see if there were any
replies to my impulsive and possibly too revealing message session
earlier. I didn’t have any flags or warnings, which was
good.

I decided it was time to
be a rule-following person, and stick to the shop guidelines more
strictly from now on. There were three messages. One, from Don Juan
Lothario (who did he think he’d attract with that name?), was
clearly “flag for caution” material. He’d named his salary, his
bonus, and the size of his…well, anyway, he’d broken more than one
rule.

The next one was generic,
but seemed harmless. Someone looking for a woman who could fulfill
his needs, and understand the pressure people like him were under.
Please. Filet mignon versus caviar-stuffed salmon for dinner was
nothing like the pressure of having to clean your house after
Hurricane Family had blown through.

Come to think of it, he
probably had a maid to do his cleaning. All those people probably
had maids. Maybe even live-in maids. I got lost in the fantasy for
a moment before reading the third message.

There was a reply from the
guy I’d been too honest with. “I, too, love Tolkien and Jong. I
read
Fear of Flying
when I was fifteen and I’ve never been the same since. To
have the courage to live like that is my dream, too. But…first, do
I need the one ring to keep us from falling on our
faces?”

I doublechecked to see if
I’d gotten a woman who’d mistaken me (or not) for a man. Nope.
Hammond Pierce the III was 6’2” of man.

I sent a quick reply, only
realizing I’d gone off script again after I hit send. “Never mind
fear of flying, I have fear of walking. Scattered toys are an
unsung hazard to both hobbits and humans.”

To my shock, I got a reply
instantly. “Toys? Do you have children?”

Oops. I quickly gave
Serena a sister, with kids. “A niece and two nephews. They need a
good nanny, and an even better housekeeper.”

I hit send and
waited.

There was no quick reply
this time. I wondered if I’d been too harsh. But then I shrugged.
What did it matter? All I was assigned to do was weed out creeps.
Hammond Pierce was passing the tests with flying colors. The
assignment was done tonight, and my connection with Hammond would
be no more.

Just as I opened a file to
make notes for the shop report on these guys, my cell phone rang. I
jumped, the sound was so foreign, a bugle rendition of reveille. I
answered, wondering when Anna had changed my ring tone — and how
much she’d charge me to change it to something less
terrifying.

“
Molly, don’t say no,” Sue
began.

“
Does that mean you’re
about to say massage shop?”

Silence. A sigh. “The
dating company is impressed with how much interest Serena is
attracting. They’d like to extend the shop, so her profile can help
weed out the less desirable folks.”

“
For how long?”

“
Two weeks.”

“
I—”

“
Five hundred
dollars.”

“
I— ”

“
And never mind the
massage, you’ll get the very next spa shop I have to schedule.
Cross my heart.”

Five hundred dollars, and
a spa shop. I’d be an idiot to say no to that. “Okay.”

“
Great! By the way, do you
need a new bra?”

“
Why?”

“
I have a quick bra shop
in your part of town — not the mall, I promise.”

I looked at the time. I
could do it before I picked up the kids. And I could use a new bra,
since my youngest bra was probably eight years old. “The next two
spa shops?”

“
You got it.”

I looked at the guys
interested in Serena. “You’ll just have to wait for me to get home
tonight.”

I shut down the computer,
promising myself that I’d make sure Seth chaperoned me on all
future dates.

I’d said
yes to the bra shop in a moment of weakness. This would be my first
visit, ever, to a lingerie store. Lingerie was so far from my usual
stomping grounds, I wasn’t sure I would know the lingua franca well
enough not to raise the clerk’s suspicions.

I have a confession. I’m a
mystery shopper who hates to shop. Really. I know a set of x
chromosomes usually contains the genetic encoding for shopping. But
one—or both—of my x chromosomes are defective. Price comparison
gives me a headache. Looking through racks of bras to find the
perfect 32AA (there is no such thing as far as I know) makes me
crave nothing more than a cool dark cave. But this shop pays $20,
plus reimbursement for the purchase. And I really could use a new
bra.