Shop and Let Die (21 page)

“
You just need a little
practice.” She seemed almost sympathetic. “How old are your
children?”

I grinned. “Is it that
obvious?”

“
I see many ladies in your
situation—dressed to run at the last minute, minimal makeup, wash
and go hair, a purse big enough to hold Fort Knox.”

Her description was
mystery shopper accurate. Ouch. “We’re that easy to pick out of a
crowd?”

“
You’re that prevalent,”
she corrected with a warm smile. “Remember, I have a mother
myself.”

Somehow that didn’t make
me happy. This young woman was just too young to understand. She
needed at least one screaming toddler clinging to her perfectly
toned knee.

As if she sensed my
unhappiness with her acute observation, she shook her head. “I
know. My mother says I won’t understand until I’ve been through it.
And I believe her. But—I can tell you that when I was sixteen my
father got a new job where she had to socialize and she went into
the process with the same attitude you have now.”

“
Did you help
her?”

“
That’s how I got my
start—her asking me for advice. For every great outfit I found for
her, she gave me a $25 gift certificate.”

I thought about trusting
Anna to choose my outfits. Then I thought about Anna at 16 and
decided I didn’t want to go there. Thinking of myself stunning men
speechless was as frightening a thought as I could manage
today.

“
So, if I were your
mother, what would you prescribe for me?”

Like a whirlwind she
whipped me in and out of dresses, skirts, blouses (tucked in,
tucked out, open over delicate silk shells) scarves flew through
the air in a rainbow shower that I could barely keep track
of.

At last, in shock, I
stared at a sophisticated woman. Or at least, me in the disguise of
a sophisticated woman, if I didn’t open my mouth, laugh, or try to
walk.

“
Perfect.” Callie had
stepped back to eye her creation with a critical eye. “Except you
need a makeover.”

“
I have some
mascara…”

Callie shook her head and
opened a little gold cell phone with the store’s logo inscribed
onto it. “Sapphi, I need you.” She looked up at me, giving me one
more critical appraisal. “The works.” She nodded. “Lovely skin, but
needs moisturizer, looking for a sophisticated but subtle wow.” She
smiled. “Good girl, I knew you were up for the
challenge.”

Within moments Sapphi had
arrived, with a rolling cart of makeup in every imaginable shade
and shimmer. I tried not to let my panic show as the young woman
greeted me with a pout that made her nose ring and the lip stud at
the center of her black-lipsticked upper lip clink together
softly.

Could a young woman with
three-colored eye shadow and thick black liner even understand the
meaning of subtle? Or sophisticated? But Callie seemed unperturbed
as she picked through the rolling cart, exclaiming with
pleasure.

I closed my eyes and
listened to the women’s soft whispers and the sound of little
bottles clinking and tapping as every so often something would be
dabbed on my face and either wiped off with a soft cluck of
disapproval or left with a sigh of satisfaction.

Clearly, these two had
worked together before. I relaxed and decided that it would not
matter if I ended up looking like a circus freak, I could always
wash it off later. If I really had to face the FBI, I’d rather do
it fully armored.

I should have had more
faith in Callie, though. When I was at last instructed to open my
eyes I was astonished at the transformation. I looked like me, only
younger, fresher, happier, and thinner, thanks to the un-girdle and
the faintest of shading at my jawline.

I was a masterpiece. A
fraudulently sophisticated woman who could bowl over any dad in the
carpool.

Carpool
. Panic gripped me. The music had lulled me into a false
sense of timelessness. “What time is it?”

Callie, catching my panic,
glanced at her watch discreetly. “Two forty.” She smiled, “You have
plenty of time, it only takes ten minutes to get to Mildred Pierce
from here.”

She was gathering up the
receipts for the outfit she had chosen for me, and the sample
makeup that Sapphi had gifted me with. “Let’s get you checked out
and on your way to school.”

I was trapped by the
mystery shop into agreeing. The only problem was, my children did
not go to Mildred Pierce, even if Serena’s children would have done
so, given the fake address. With after-school traffic it would take
me, Molly-the-Super-Spy, at least half an hour to get the
kids.

Even though Callie was
efficient, and her receptionist a marvel at wrapping up all my
purchases in tissue paper, it took me fifteen minutes to get out of
there and five to get to the car.

I was going to be forty
minutes late to pick up my kids from school. And, unlike many other
parents, Seth and I had resisted the urge to get the children cell
phones so that we could keep in constant communication. They had my
cell number. Somewhere buried in their backpacks. Or they could go
to the office and get it from the secretary. I burned at the
thought. What would she think of me? Of course, who cared what she
thought of me if I could reassure the kids that I would be there
for them as quickly as I could.

I noticed the text on my
phone as I waited for my purchases to be bagged. Deb.
Nancy is picking Anna and Sarah up today. Come to
my office as soon as you’re done with your appointment.

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

When Jobs Collide

I drove to Deb’s office on autopilot. I’d wanted
my life to change, but in no way had I wanted that change to
include coming near a serial killer. That, I knew, was a bad idea.
I just had to figure out how to convince James Connery, and Deb,
that it was.

Everyone stopped and
stared at me when I walked into the police headquarters. I realized
I was dressed for a cocktail party, not a visit to my local
police.

Deb scowled at the gaping
guys, and grabbed my arm to lead me back into a small airless room
with a big metal table and four chairs. James Connery was there.
Deb sat in the chair beside him, leaving me all alone on the perp
side of the table.

I tried to joke. “Am I
under suspicion of being the Shopping Mall Killer?”

Neither of them laughed.
Deb looked worried, and shook her head at me to signal that I
should not make jokes.

“
No. Mrs. Harbison. Molly.
I realize it may seem unorthodox, but we have reason to believe
that your mystery shop at the millionaire dating service may have
caught the attention of the Shopping Mall Killer.”

I thought of all the
profiles I’d read, the ones I’d reported as breaking the rules. All
the men whose names I couldn’t even remember. One of them was the
serial killer? I started to shake.“What do you want from me? My
files? I can give you those.”

I took out my phone and
started to log into the site. “I can give you my phone if it helps.
Let me just pull up the site for you.”

He reached out and took my
phone away from me. “We already have those files from the service,
but thank you.”

“
Then what do you want
from me?” I glanced at Deb, puzzled. She looked apologetic for not
giving me a heads up, but she didn’t say anything.

James Connery smiled at
me, and I sensed that the smile would have reduced me to abject
compliance in any other situation. “We want you to go on a
date.”

I did not feel compliant.
I felt trapped. “I gave up dating for marriage fifteen years
ago.”

He brushed that aside with
a sweep of his hand. “We just want you to meet these men in person.
You’ll be wired. We’ll be right there.”

“
Men?”

“
There are three
possibilities. We need your help to narrow them down.”

I said nothing.

Deb spoke, at last,
“Molly?”

I frowned at her. “Do you
think this is a good idea? If Anna ever found out, she’d never
sleep again.”

“
I volunteered to take
your place, but they say they need
you
.”

I looked at James Connery.
“You don’t need Deb. She’s a single mom. Her daughter needs her,
like my daughter needs me.”

I thought of all the TV
crime shows I’d ever seen. “Can’t you just dress up one of your FBI
agents to pretend to be me? I don’t really look like Serena, you
know.”

He ignored the first part
of my objection, and dealt with the last. “No worries. A blonde
wig, a little make up, and you’ll be able to pass.”

I stood up. “I’m sorry.
I’m married. I’m a mom. I can’t.”

I ignored Deb’s stricken
look. She was on the side of the Feds right now, not the side of
the moms.

I called on the power of
my new clothes and channeled a confidence worthy of Dierdre the
heart surgeon. I stood up. “I’m sorry, I have to help my kids with
their homework, and get dinner on the table.”

Anna and Sarah were very quiet when they got into
the car after I picked them up from Nancy’s house.

I was preoccupied with
jumbled and confusing thoughts of spies, and dream dates, and
serial killers, so it took me a while to notice. One glance in the
rear view mirror, though, and I knew something was
wrong.

I didn’t bother to ask
Anna, as I knew she wouldn’t tell me anything that would make me
worry. “Sarah, did something happen at school today?”

“
Lanie’s dad had to pick
her up because her mom is missing.”

“
Oh.” Lanie’s mom and dad
were divorced, but amicable. Or so I had thought. “She probably
just went on a trip and forgot to tell anyone.”

“
She went to the mall! The
serial killer got her,” Anna said, and then clapped her hand over
her mouth, as if to keep any more bad news from spilling
out.

My cell phone started
buzzing and binging with texts and email until it abruptly died
with a familiar dead battery warning buzzt. Anna didn’t even chide
me as she reached forward and plugged it in to recharge.

Immediately, it began to
ring. Deb’s ringtone. I didn’t answer. I was driving, and Anna was
watching me worriedly.

Instead, I pulled into the
closest frozen yogurt place, gave the girls money, and called Deb
back while the girls were busy deciding on what flavor they
wanted.

It is very easy for me to
picture Anna as CEO of her own company. Or an accountant. As a
mother, there’s quite a bit of fog—my poor grandchild will probably
spend his or her childhood in a helmet and knee and elbow pads like
a hockey player—without the fun of ramming a puck around the ice
with a big stick. But I’m very sure the last thing my daughter, now
or fully grown, would ever do was allow herself to go shopping for
a serial killer.

I shut off my phone and
left it in the car, on purpose this time.

Frostbite had formed on
the tip of my nose by the time I dug up four pieces of frozen
chicken breast, a lemon, zucchini, and salad fixings. Seth and I
would eat most of it, I realized. The kids would both eat the lemon
chicken and the zucchini, and the lettuce from the
salad.

I blocked out thoughts of
James Connery and Deb’s stricken face with thoughts of what to
serve for dessert. Dessert had become a trial since I started
eating low-carb. The brownies, apple crisp, and cheesecake I used
to serve have morphed into sugar free Jello and dried apricots
dipped in dark chocolate. I’m afraid to have the desserts I love in
the house—my willpower is not that strong and I’m home alone quite
a bit. Which made me think of serial killers.

I opened the freezer and
began an inventory. I do have the freezer filled with a dessert
that even my weak willpower can resist, ice cream—vanilla for Anna,
peanut butter cup for Ryan and Rocky Road for Seth--since the only
flavor I like is banana. Hardly anyone makes banana ice cream.
Thank goodness. I did see it in Walmart the other day—on the way
out, thank goodness. Hershey’s makes it, bless them. Maybe when
I’ve met my target weight I’ll indulge. If they still make it when
Anna graduates.

Dinner in the oven, I
surveyed the bulging backpacks with relief rather than dread. I’m a
supermom, not an FBI agent. Supermoms know what homework is due by
reading teachers’s minds--since this information is scarce and must
be pulled delicately and carefully from the teacher in small bits
and pieces…although they happily provide it at mid-term report and
report card time—when it is too late to do anything about
it.

I have occasionally
considered just giving up the nagging, interrogating, snooping
through the backpack route to homework vigilance and just doing the
damn posters, dioramas and reports myself. But I’m afraid the
grades would depress me—what if I, a college graduate, got a C on a
book report about
Clifford, the Big Red
Dog
?