Shop and Let Die (6 page)

When I turned the computer
on, I already had an email from Sue with the job specs. I scrolled
down the questions to be answered, first—not bad, only ten. Eight
multiple choice, which would be a breeze, and two short answer,
less than 50 words each. They were typical customer service
questions, too, the kind I’d gotten good at answering—Were you
helped promptly? Was the answer complete? Correct? Polite? Did the
employee upsell?

I read the scenario and
suddenly understood why Sue had been so evasively vague. This was
an online dating service.

I picked up the phone to
call Sue and then stopped to think about the consequences of
declining a shop I’d accepted. A shop she was so desperate to fill
that she’d offered a bonus of twice the shop cost. There were
stories of what happened when you scheduled a shop and then
cancelled. Not pretty stories.

But—what would Seth say if
he found out I’d done a dating survey? What would the vendor say if
a married shopper did their site? I sat down to read the shop
instructions, looking for a loophole out.

I’d read everything twice
when I realized that being married was not a hindrance to this
shop—I only had to try to set up a profile and ask a question of
customer service. The job specs specifically prohibited me from
going through with the set-up. This was an evaluation of customer
service, only.

I put the phone down. I
could handle that. Besides, thirty bucks would pay for Anna’s piano
lesson this week, plus a venti Starbucks for me while I waited for
her to painstakingly pound out “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.”
Coffee in the afternoon sometimes gave me a headache, but Anna’s
piano lesson always did, so it was the best time to enjoy my
obscene vice—sweet coffee desserts that masqueraded as a drink
(except for the price of course, which was comparable to a good
slice of cheesecake).

I punched up the dating
website and followed the directions for setting up a profile—fill
out personal specs, and then specs for my ideal mate. I found out
it was surprisingly easy to know what you wanted in a man after
you’d been married for fifteen years. Someone who listened. Whose
eyes smiled when he looked at you, even when you were at your
worst. Who knew your favorite ice cream flavor and bought it for
you the day before PMS hit. In other words, a creature of sheer
fantasy who, if he existed at all, would turn out to be a serial
killer luring you in for the kill.

I could see why this shop
didn’t have a high pay—there was no fee to set up a profile and, as
far as I could see, no safeguards. I could set myself up as perky
hot actress type, complete with photo. The idea appealed for a
moment, but mystery shopper ethics require not making yourself
conspicuous. Perky hot actress is definitely
conspicuous.

Because I didn’t want to
waste too much time on a shop that only paid thirty bucks, I put in
real information for myself. Okay, almost real—I ignored the gray
beginning to show in my light brown hair, and I stuck with my
driver’s license weight of 120. Fun was probably stretching it, but
Anna’s Brownie troop had had a ton of fun picking up trash by the
riverfront last week, so I felt it was a legitimate adjective for a
fake profile.

My ideal mate was harder.
I knew what I wanted, but I also knew he didn’t exist anywhere
except in my imagination. Would that make my profile conspicuous,
or run of the mill? So hard to tell.

Finally, I went with my
instinct that any woman desperate enough to post on a free dating
board was clueless enough to let her unrealistic expectations hang
out for predatory men to take advantage of.

I listed my “must haves”
as good sense of humor (true), easy going personality (true), love
of children (true…but I’m not sure I’d have listed it if I were
really looking for a date), and a healthy respect for an
independent woman (this one was wildly unrealistic, but I didn’t
feel it would make me stand out from the pack and ring any alarm
bells with the dating company customer service staff).

As for picture—I felt
creepy sending one of me, so I scanned in a nice one that had come
in a picture frame I’d just bought (which was a plus, since it
spurred me to take it out of the bag, put in the first-grade school
picture of Anna, and hang the framed picture on the hook that had
been waiting for it for almost a year.

As a bonus, she fit my
description (even the driver’s license weight) and seemed like an
approachable enough woman—not glamorous enough to give a customer
service guy pause.

I then followed my shop
instructions and began the profile submission process, right up
until final approval status. Then I sent customer service an email
asking if the service was really free.

Within a minute I got back
a generic, “Thank you, we’ll answer as quickly as we can,” email. I
debated whether to check my Secret Shopper Sisterhood boards or put
in a load of laundry and, slightly ashamed that I was a married
woman thinking about my ideal dating partner, I went with the
laundry.

When I returned to the
computer, I saw that I had a reply well within the ten to fifteen
minutes required by the vendor. My personal email from Chad at
customer service assured me that there were no surprise costs
involved once I had clicked on the Acceptance button and submitted
my profile.

Chad, being the good
customer service employee his name suggested, then upsold me to
their “Premium Dating Service” which would give me access to a
rarified dating pool and other dater’s ratings of potential
dates.

Besides getting points for
upselling the premium service, he also allowed me to ask a
follow-up question—Did the premium service have anything to offer
to people like me. It was a simple question, but it would require
him to look at my profile in order to give me a personally-tailored
answer.

Chad was a good customer
service representative, he quickly replied that attractive women
like me tended to prefer the premium service because it weeded out
the losers without wasting our valuable time. Good answer, Chad,
just what the vendor wanted you to say. I hoped he wouldn’t take it
personally when I deleted my profile instead of taking the final
step to accept it.

The phone rang. I
considered not answering it, afraid it was Seth with another
reminder about the job fair. But then I worried that it was the
school about one of the kids. One day we’d have to get Caller
ID.

It was Sue. “Have you done
that shop yet?”

“
Just
finished.”

“
Great.” She sounded
relieved.

I said, with mild sarcasm,
“Thanks for telling me it was a dating shop.”

“
I know. I know. Everyone
else turned me down because of it. I knew you’d be smart enough to
see you didn’t have to actually sign up—it’s just customer service.
I don’t know why everyone got so freaky about it.”

I pointed out the obvious:
“It’s never healthy to think about your ideal man when you’re stuck
with the one you’re married to.”

“
I hear you.” Sue laughed.
“Get that report in ASAP and I owe you big time.”

“
Shall I expect a massage
shop soon?”

“
At the very least, I
won’t ask you to do a mall shop this week.” She paused, and grew
more serious. “You’ll hear sooner or later, I guess. The missing
mom in your area. She’s a shopper. Not one of mine,
thankfully.”

“
I’m sorry to hear that.”
I thought of the missing mom’s eyes in the flyer. “Guess what I
won’t be telling my family?”

“
You and me both, and I
don’t even do the shops any more.” She switched to an upbeat tone.
“Get on that report.”

“
Will do.” Sometimes a
report will be more trouble than it seemed like it would be when I
accepted the job, but not this one. My notes made it an under ten
minute process, and the website offered no annoying glitches to
drag out the process.

When I saw the
confirmation number for my report show up I felt very satisfied.
Thirty dollars earned in under an hour right from the comfort of my
own computer.

Who said this wasn’t a
real job? Complete with unexpected bonuses, and unexpected
dangers.

Which reminded me I needed
to shower and put on nice clothes for my trip to the job
fair.

CHAPTER SIX

Spies, Spies, Everywhere

My phone buzzed before I’d even dried my hair. A
text from Deb said, “Running late for church. Give me ten minutes,
please. Sorry.”

I ran a brush through my
wet hair, slipped on my shoes and a blue jacket that suggested
“professional” in a nonspecific way and left for the coffee shop
meeting I’d completely forgotten.

Deb and I had, in a moment
of madness, agreed to work the PTA fundraising carnival, in
addition to our usual stint making baked goods for the monthly bake
sale. At least it gave us a chance to meet for coffee at the shop
near the police station.

I made it to the coffee
shop, which Deb had dubbed “church” because of all the bible study
groups who met in there, before Deb arrived.

I even had time to quickly
turn my coffee addiction into a paid gig. The smart phone was going
to pay for itself within the month, I thought, as I signed up for a
shop request while waiting in the five-person line. All I had to do
was to remember to keep it fully charged.

“
Sorry I’m late,” Deb
said, as she dropped her purse in the chair I had saved for her by
the coffee shop fireplace.

She scanned the tables and
comfy chairs, her eyes lingering on the group of golfing buddies in
a corner far from us. “Not too busy in church today,
though.”

I gave her the obligatory
warning shake of my head, my gaze sliding to our right. There was
only one couple nearby, both speaking low and earnest over an open
Bible.

She sat down and said very
low, “Well, well, well. Twenty says they’re more interested in each
other than in that Bible.” She seemed amused.

I glanced over, hoping
they hadn’t heard us. No worries. The guy looked about thirty-five,
the girl about twenty. From the way he was doing most of the
talking and she was looking at him with adoring eyes, I wondered if
they could actually be on a bible study date, despite the
difference in age. Or else I just had dating on my mind and I was
being totally unfair to them.

She glanced at my cup.
“Plain latte, I see.”

“
My work requires
sacrifice,” I acknowledged. “Just like yours.” If I hadn’t been
required to buy a latte for the shop, I’d have ordered a
mocha.

Deb held up her hand.
“Yep. I was wounded in the line of duty again today.” She wiggled
her fingers. “Three different vicious paper cuts.”

“
One day they’ll be
forgotten — as soon as you pass your Detective’s exam.”

She frowned. “Let me go
get my not-so-plain mocha with soy and an extra shot, and we can
get down to planning.”

I didn’t like the tension
in her jaw. I guessed her captain had put another roadblock in her
way. For some reason, he didn’t seem to think Deb would make a good
detective.

I wished I could tell him
she had a stellar reputation among the school moms for finding the
best children’s birthday party deals that didn’t come with an
uncle-creepy vibe. Not that he’d likely be impressed, as he was a
childless bachelor.

I eyed Deb’s frothy coffee
concoction with envy. What I do for a shop — oh well. Seth couldn’t
complain about the expense, the shop had paid for my coffee, plus
the gas to get here and home.

Deb didn’t waste time with
gossip. “So, did we get the duck booth?”

I shook my head.
“Nope.”

“
Let me guess — Ellie F.
got it.”

“
Your detective instincts
are well honed.”

She frowned and sipped her
coffee, giving me a don’t-go-there vibe. “Balloon pop?”

I decided to just deliver
the bad news. “Cake walk.”

“
No way!” She gave me a
suspicious look over the coffee froth. “What on earth did you do to
piss off Bianca?’

“
Hey. You could have
showed up at the meeting.” It was my turn to give off the
don’t-go-there vibe. My history with the current PTA president was
troubled, to say the least. “We can do it. You come to the
playground in uniform, I’ll hand out cake assignments. No one will
refuse.”

She made a face at me and
grumbled, “Herding cake bakers is worse than handling police
paperwork.”

No sympathy lurked in my
heart. “Hey. I told you that uniform could get you elected PTA
president. But no, you didn’t want to go there.”

She sighed, admitting
defeat. “I get to shoot the cakes that even a dog wouldn’t eat.
Agreed?” She raised her coffee cup toward mine.

We paper-clinked coffee
cups. “Agreed.”

Efficiently, we divided
the names we’d have to call — the names of those who didn’t come
for playground pick-up so I could dragoon them face to face —
finished our coffee, and stood to leave.