The Fashion Hound Murders (3 page)

“I can give you another fifty bucks if you’ll do the pet store job,” Harry the Horrible said. Josie’s boss had waited until eight thirty that morning to call her back with the news.

More money? Josie thought. Harry never offers me more money. The man is desperate. He’s not even eating anything as he talks to me. Something is really wrong with this assignment.

“Fifty dollars per store, or fifty bucks total?” Josie asked.

“Total, of course. What do you think I am?” Harry sounded shocked.

“I’m supposed to risk my life for fifty bucks?” Josie asked. “That will barely cover the gas to the two stores.”

“Don’t be melodramatic,” Harry said. “What’s dangerous about stores that sell little puppies?”

“They aren’t selling little puppies. They’re peddling abused animals.”

“You don’t know that,” Harry said. “That’s why the company needs someone to investigate.”

“So hire an investigator. This isn’t my job. I’m a mystery shopper. I evaluate the sales personnel and the store’s appearance.”

“A couple of these stores may—and I mean
may
—be selling puppy mill dogs. Big deal.”

“It is a big deal, Harry. A pedigreed Chihuahua sells for around four hundred dollars. The news reports said this chain bought fifteen thousand puppy mill dogs cheap and sold them at inflated prices. We’re looking at some six million dollars in sales. That can attract a murderer.”

“Don’t be a drama queen,” Harry said. “You’re going to a pet store. It’s perfectly safe.”

“Then you go,” Josie said.

“I can’t,” Harry said, a little too quickly. “I have to manage the office.”

“The faxes will come in by themselves,” Josie said. “The answering machine will take your calls.”

“Pets 4 Luv wants you, Josie.” It must have hurt Harry to make that admission. “They asked for you by name.”

“Let them pay for the privilege.”

“Josie,” he said, his voice hardening, “jobs are getting harder to find. Ever notice how many stores that we used to mystery-shop are now out of business? Others are laying off people. They can’t afford mystery shoppers. You’re lucky to have a job.”

“I’m not lucky if I get killed,” Josie said.

“Who says you’ll get killed?” Harry asked. “All you have to do is look at puppies.”

Josie hung up while Harry was still protesting. Fifty lousy bucks! She was supposed to risk her life for that? That was barely a bag of groceries.

She flopped down on her sagging couch and surveyed her living room. The rug had spots that wouldn’t come out. The end table was decorated with dust and drink rings. There were cobwebs in the corners of the room.

My house looks like a secondhand furniture showroom, Josie thought. She swiped at the dust on the end table. Ugh. Her hand came away gray. She remembered her grandmother saying, “We were never so poor we couldn’t afford soap.”

Maybe cleaning the room would make it look better. Josie pulled out the furniture polish, dust rags, and vacuum and set to work, cleaning, polishing, and hating Harry. An hour later, the shabby living room shone. That made it look worse. Now the stains stood out in the freshly vacuumed rug. The drink rings were more visible. Maybe she should buy slipcovers for the ratty couch. But nothing could disguise that sagging middle.

Sagging middle. That reminded her of Stan, her muscle-bound boyfriend. Nothing sagged on that man, except maybe his interest in Josie. Last winter, her formerly nerdy neighbor had buffed up and bought new clothes. Now Stan was definitely eye candy, and they’d started dating. But things weren’t clicking between them. Under that hot exterior lurked a lukewarm little old man.

Stan lived next door, but the gym was his new second home. He used to manage a hardware store. Stan had enjoyed recommending the right showerhead and the proper paintbrush. He’d happily searched for shovels and garden sprinklers. He was endlessly patient with puzzled home re-modelers.

But the hardware store went out of business about the time Stan became seriously interested in bodybuilding. Now he had a job at 2 Ripped. When he wasn’t working, he was working out. The man was obsessed.

The receptionist answered the phone with a sultry, “Welcome to 2 Ripped, where we have our December two-for-one Get Ripped for the Holidays sale.”

“May I speak to Stan?” Josie could hear the workout music thumping in the background.

“Oh, it’s you,” the receptionist said, turning off the charm.

“Hey, Muscle Dude! It’s your old lady,” she yelled. “Pick up the extension.”

More thumping music. Then Stan said, “Hi, honey. Howie and I are going for a run tonight at five. Want to join us?”

“It’s too cold,” Josie said.

“Not once you start moving,” Stan said.

“There are other ways to warm up,” Josie said. “I could fix you dinner. I could make us two nice, lean steaks. Mom will watch Amelia. Then we could go to your place.”

“Thanks, sweetie, but I’m in the carbohydrate phase of my diet. I have to eat thirty-three grams of carbs every three hours. I’m limited to sweet potatoes, oatmeal, and whole wheat pasta. Besides, I have to get up for a six-o’clock run tomorrow. I burn more fat if I exercise before breakfast.”

Josie was almost lonesome for the old Stan, who compared bargain prices on paper towels. “But you liked the steak I fixed two Fridays ago,” Josie said.

“That was during my high-protein phase,” Stan said. “I have to alternate. Now I’m in carb mode. I control my protein cravings with a tablespoon of low-sodium peanut butter.”

What about my cravings? Josie wondered. Peanut butter won’t help me. I’ll be thirty-two soon. A woman has needs, and peanut butter isn’t one of mine.

“I can’t look cut if I’m not lean,” Stan said.

“If you were any more cut, you’d have a Waterford label,” Josie said.

More thumping music. Stan had missed the joke. Maybe he’d overdeveloped the muscles in his head.

“Waterford is cut crystal,” Josie tried to explain. “It’s something else to admire.”

He still didn’t get it. The man looks like a Greek god, Josie thought, but I’d get more action from a marble statue.

Stan skittered away from the dicey topic of sex. “Is your dishwasher okay? Anything you want me to work on around the house?”

Yes! Josie wanted to scream. Me!

“No?” Stan said, before she could answer. “Gotta run. My first client is here. See you.”

See you. That’s exactly what she’d do. Stare at her smoking-hot boyfriend. Stan looked like he could stop a cattle stampede with one hand while he carried a swooning heroine in the other. But he didn’t make Josie swoon. She’d spent more exciting nights in the ceiling fan section at Home Depot.

Josie felt almost grateful when her doorbell rang, interrupting her anti-Stan list. She peeked out and saw her mother bundled in a dark coat, scarf, and boots. A black wool hat was mashed down on Jane’s iron gray hair. It must be beauty shop day.

“Come in, Mom,” Josie said.

“I found a nice beige couch at a moving sale this morning,” Jane said. “It looks brand-new. It’s perfect for your living room and it’s only two hundred dollars.”

“That’s lovely, Mom, but by the time I get there, a bargain like that will be gone.”

“No, it won’t. I bought it for you. It’s your birthday present. Early.”

“Thanks, Mom. You didn’t have to—”

“No, I didn’t. But I wanted to. I’ve just talked to Stan. He’s going to borrow his friend Howie’s truck and deliver it tonight.”

Aha. This was a gift with strings. Josie’s mother was crazy about Stan. Jane had been trying to snag him as a son-in-law for years. “Call him and find out what time.”

“But Mom—”

“Enjoy your new couch,” Jane said. “Don’t forget that Amelia is coming upstairs to my kitchen for a cooking lesson after school. If you want, I can keep Amelia late so you and Stan can have some private time.”

Josie wondered whether her mother’s clumsy matchmaking efforts had helped cool Stan’s spark. It was difficult to have hot thoughts about a woman with her mother hovering in the background.

“He’s busy tonight.”

“I know he can deliver the couch, Josie. I just called him. Maybe if your cooking were better, he’d see you more often. Amelia and I are making chili tonight. There’s enough for you and Stan both. No man can resist a good bowl of chili on a cold winter night.”

“This one can. I wish he’d get off this health kick.”

“Just be glad he doesn’t go drinking with the boys,” Jane said.

“It would be better if he did, Mom,” Josie said. “That’s normal. Eating thirty-three grams of sweet potato is not.”

“Josie, you’re not getting any younger. Your daughter needs a father. You shouldn’t let him get away.”

“If I were a barbell, Mom, he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off me.”

Jane thrust out her jaw in that stubborn bulldog stance. “I can’t talk to you when you’re being silly. I’ll be at the beauty shop.” She stomped off toward the garage, her back rigid with anger.

How could she explain to straitlaced Jane that Stan was more interested in working out than making out? Josie tried hard not to giggle. She needed her mother, but she put up with a lot for that help.

What if a grown-up Amelia came to me with that problem? Josie wondered. I hope I’d be wise and witty, but I’d probably flub it. I did a lousy job of telling my daughter why I didn’t marry her father. Amelia was nine when Nate reappeared on my doorstep, and I still hadn’t found the right time for that talk.

Josie tried to count her blessings. At least the ratty couch would be out of there. She’d call Stan again and find out what time he could bring the new couch.

“Muscle Dude, it’s your old lady. Again,” sang out the receptionist.

“Josie, I can’t talk. I have a client.” Stan dropped the phone and apologized. “Sorry, my hands are slippery with sweat. I’ve been working out.”

“Mom said you were going to deliver my couch tonight, but it can wait. You’re busy.”

“No, Howie and I will bring it after our run, about seven thirty. He’ll help carry it in. Will that work?”

“Do you need Howie?” Josie said. “With your muscles, you could carry it in single-handed.”

“Thanks,” Stan said. “But this is my ‘cutting’ week. I’ve been working my chest, shoulders, arms, and abs. I don’t want to overdo it.”

Overdo it? The man measured his food on a scale and kept a workout diary.

“What if I make you and Howie dinner after you deliver the couch, as a thank-you? I can bake a potato.”

“Thanks, sweetie, but Howie is into raw food.”

“I can make that,” Josie said.

“He only eats organic. He needs his meals specially measured. Gotta run. See you tonight.”

Josie wondered what else she could do to spice up their romantic life. She’d tried lacy underwear, candles, special dinners, and scented oils. She’d read books about how to turn cool men into red-hot lovers. She’d tried tactful ways to tell Stan what she liked. Despite his hunky body, Stan was as sexy as baggy sweatpants.

Maybe I should admit it, Josie thought. Stan was like a sweet older brother. He enjoyed puttering around fixing things at her flat. His wardrobe used to look like it had been stolen from a nursing home. Stan had favored baggy brown
Father Knows Best
cardigans and nerdy shirts. For years, he’d been content to admire Josie from afar.

Then, last Christmas, when her romance with Mike the plumber had fallen apart, she’d suddenly noticed Stan was a hottie. Actually, Amelia had noticed first. Josie had started dating Stan on the rebound. She couldn’t marry Mike: He had serious problems with his daughter. Heather needed a psychiatrist, not a stepmother. Worse, Heather hated Amelia, and Josie couldn’t sacrifice her daughter for her personal happiness.

Nate, her first hot lover, had been a romantic figure: handsome, passionate, impulsive, and generous. Josie assumed Nate had family money. After she was pregnant, Josie discovered he was a drug dealer with dangerous friends. She refused to marry him. Nate spent nine years in a Canadian prison, then came back for her and Amelia. He was murdered and died on Josie’s doorstep. Josie turned gratefully to sweet, safe Stan.

He was still sweet and safe. Stan didn’t care that Josie wasn’t as ripped as he was. Stan never looked at other women. At the gym, the women (and a few men) ran after Stan like greyhounds after a mechanical rabbit. One woman with abs like cobblestones even bought him a T-shirt that said MUSCLE DUDE.

Stan kept the shirt, but ignored the flirt. “I like women to be a little shy, you know?” he told Josie. They were watching TV at the time. They were always watching TV, unless Stan was mowing Josie’s lawn, shoveling her sidewalk, or raking her leaves. Her all-around handyman did everything but heat up the bedroom.

Josie’s phone rang.

“Is this Ms. Marcus?” a clipped, nasal voice asked. Josie recognized the superior tone, if not the person. It was the Barrington School for Boys and Girls. She was the single mother of a full-scholarship student. Major donors were treated with hushed respect.

“Ms. Marcus, my name is Wendell Worthington, with the Barrington School for Boys and Girls. I’m afraid I must give you some bad news.”

“Is my daughter okay?” Josie asked.

“She’s fine,” Worthington said, with a false chuckle. “An excellent student. Top notch. A credit to Barrington. And to herself, of course. I’m the school’s financial officer. It is my unfortunate duty to tell you that we can no longer give your daughter a full scholarship.”

“What!” Josie said.

“As you know,” Worthington continued smoothly, “these are troubled financial times. Our school trust was heavily invested in Edgar Smathson’s fund.”

St. Louis’s answer to Bernie Madoff had stripped his country club pals down to their monogrammed boxer shorts.

“Mr. Smathson was such a generous donor and a good man. We had no idea he was running a Ponzi scheme until the indictments. Our trust lost only twenty percent, which is quite good in this market.”

Worthington took time to pat himself on his back before he stabbed Josie’s.

“We are forced to ask every parent to contribute a little something.”

“But I’m a mystery shopper,” Josie said. “And so many stores are closing that I’m losing work. I’m making less money. I can’t afford—”