Priced to Move

“Come on. I’ll get you back to the studio.”

We fly through traffic. Although Miss Mona has carefully screened each and every employee, the Bible’s right about temptation. It’s a powerful thing. There’s no need to leave temptation out there to happen.

At the S.T.U.D., Max agrees to wait for me in the car. I run into the green room, and to my pleasant surprise, the trays are right where I’d left them—untouched. There’s a lot to be said for Miss Mona’s instincts.

Who says you can’t get good help these days!

Trays in hand, I make my way down the hall. The audio system is blaring Tanya’s baseball card show, but other than that, everything’s quiet on the S.T.U.D. front.

And then things take a turn for the bad. Really bad.

Something small pokes through my Diane von Furstenberg silk just below my ribs. My blood turns to ice. My knees, to linguine. My heart does the tympani thing again.

Then a rough voice whispers in my ear. “Don’t stop, and don’t say a word. It’s a gun, it’s loaded, and I know how to use it. Let’s go to the vault.”

As much as I love rocks, I never really thought I’d give my life for a fortune’s worth of them.

Strangely enough, I’m not horror-movie scared. More than anything, I’m mad. And I want a chance to see my killer.

19⁰⁰

Where’s Football Max when I really need him?

Shoulder pads or not, he could tackle whoever’s tickling my ribs with a gun. Maybe if he realizes how long it’s taking me to put away the gems, he’ll come looking. Otherwise, I’m toast. I’m not dumb enough to think for a minute that this is a run-of-the-mill holdup.

“Could you just tell me why you had to kill Mr. Pak?”

I figure if I’m going to die, I might as well die knowing what went down.

That harsh voice says, “Shut up, Andie. The vault. Let’s go.”

“I’m going, I’m going.” Figures I’d wind up with a cranky killer. One who knows my nickname.

And then I get it. I’m not nearly as shaky, scared, intimidated, as I probably should be. Which says one of two things: either I’m really certain that God’s watching out for me— You know what? I am, and I figure whatever he decides is fine by me. I mean, I’d rather not be this creep’s target practice of the day, but when push comes to shove, I’m ready to see my heavenly Father face-to-face.

Wow!

On the other hand, maybe I’m too stupid for words. Because somewhere in the cobwebby corners of my mind, something tells me I’m not about to bite the dust. At least not without a fight.

Focus, Andie, focus.

A familiar sound penetrates my thoughts. Click, click, click, click, click, click . . .

There’s only one thing that makes that sound: high heels! The creep’s a woman—or a guy in drag. But if he’s going to kill me anyway, why would he bother with stilettos? No one in their right mind is going to want those on their feet when they might have to make a quick getaway.

So it’s a woman.

As I turn the corner toward the ladies’ room, I glance down and slightly behind me. Before I can catch myself, I gasp. You’re not going to believe this, but the creep and I have the same taste in shoes.

She’s wearing a pair of the same green velvet Stella Mc-Cartneys that Rio’s water ruined the day Mr. Pak died!

Okay. Does that tell me anything about her? For one, she knows me—she called me Andie, and I don’t use my nickname professionally. Second of all, she likes great shoes. How many people do I know that share my weakness?

Well, there’s Danni of the multi-hued panties. And she hates me. Not only that, but she’s got a thing for rubies.

Then . . . well, half the female population of New York loves designer shoes, but would they know my nickname? And would they want to kill a ruby vendor?

I don’t think so. I’m taller and bigger than Danni. I figure I can take her. If I can distract her long enough to steal her gun, that is.

Let me tell you something. I’m not crazy about guns.

At the door to the ladies’ room, I realize I’m about to learn the creep’s identity. Right across from the door is a massive floor-to-ceiling mirror. As soon as I walk in, I’ll see her face.

I reach for the doorknob, and the gun in my ribs gives me a sharp jab. “Don’t be stupid. Let’s get to that vault.”

Something about that husky whisper is familiar, but I can’t quite place my finger on it. The best thing to do is what they do in bad B movies—keep the perp talking. “Trust me. I don’t like this one bit. I’m not being stupid. You know and I know the vault is in the ladies’ room. It’s a pretty clever way to throw someone off, don’t you think?”

“Remember Mr. Pak? He thought he was clever.”