``Sage, darling,'' Popo cried, giving double air kisses. ``Just in time to see the David Yurman necklaces before they're all gone!''
``You kept a few back for me, right, Popo? You're the best!''
In the presence of a paying customer, Popo was instantly a different person. Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, and her energy level spiked to match her client's. She seized Sage's arm and guided her toward the escalator. ``Let's run down to Fine Jewelry this instant. I found the most perfect diamond pendant, just the thing to go with that Valentino for New Year's Eve. And earrings to match!''
``What would I do without you, Popo?'' Sage gushed.
Popo never looked back at me. She had work to do for more worthier customers.
``Merry Christmas,'' I murmured after their departing figures.
I stood for a dreadful moment, thinking about Darwin Osdack's situation. About how my stupidly unenthusiastic comment in a social situation to Alan may have spoiled Darwin's chances for advancement.
From my handbag emerged my dog, Spike, awakened perhaps by the proximity of a creature with even fewer appealing qualities than himself. He snarled sleepily.
Spike had been a gift from my driver's mother, and I'd been struggling to adjust to coping with a pet ever since. He was ten pounds of pure dynamite with many bad habits, and I had taken to carrying him around in an old Balenci- aga handbag to keep him from destroying my home while I was out. Trouble was, he'd been badly injured a few weeks earlier, and his recovery involved plaster casts and sometimes a little wheeled cart to support his hindquarters. Mostly, however, he seemed content to snooze in my bag. But with a flicker of his old bad temperament, he glared after Popo's departing figure and growled.
``Don't let her bother you,'' I said, patting his bristly head. ``There's no chance I'll be doing business with Popo anytime soon.'' 14 Nancy Martin
Spike, an ugly little fiend on his best day, gallantly sug- gested he pee on her foot.
``Go back to sleep.'' I stuffed his head back into my bag.
Outside Popo's salon stood a headless manniquin wear- ing a spectacular Oscar de la Renta gown--a fountain of ruffles, and cut on the bias, too--enough camouflage to hide the figure flaws of a camel. No doubt Popo had placed the dress there to entice one of her customers needing a last-minute grand entrance to a holiday party. Popo was smart that way--she always knew what her clients needed before they did. But looking at the Oscar, all I could think about was the beaded dress Popo had shown me. It was even more beautiful than the one on display.
But now I had to face Darwin.
I took a deep breath for courage and pushed through the door to Popo's private enclave, and found myself in a wonderland of the most expensive goods sold under Hay- maker's roof. Piles of handbags designed by celebrity wives, mounds of featherlight lingerie, racks of sequined party dresses--all evidence that Popo continued to do what she did best--push the priciest products on very willing customers.
But not all her customers were happy.
As I stepped into the salon, a female voice snarled, ``There's only one thing we can do. We'll have to kill Popo together.'' Chapter 2
Behind Popo's cluttered desk, Darwin Osdack clutched a tiny leather handbag protectively against his puny chest and brandished a silver letter opener. ``What, are you crazy?''
Two customers faced the desk, their backs to me. One was a slim young blonde wearing a black satin corset over Spandex pants that clung to her body like the skin of a greyhound fresh off the racetrack. The heels of her tight boots were too high and stiletto-thin. Her hair cascaded around her shoulders like yellow cotton candy. She leaned over the desk and presented her perfect butt to me for admiration while jamming her finger into Darwin's solar plexus. ``I want that handbag, Darwin. Yesterday I told Popo I'd strangle her with my bare hands to get it. You're not man enough to keep that bag away from me now.''
``I can't give it to you!'' Darwin's foxy face puckered with the effort to keep from weeping. ``Popo already promised it to somebody else!''
``I'm here now, and I want it.''
``But Popo says--''
�
``Dammit, my fiance owns this dump!'' The blonde slapped a clear spot on the desk so hard the platoon of Popo's various beverage bottles jumped. ``That means I get anything I want!''
Maybe because I felt guilty about Darwin, I suddenly found myself protecting him.
``Excuse me,'' I said.
Cindie Rae Smith spun around. Her flawless, Botoxed face was flushed, but uncreased despite her rage. Platinum hoops danced furiously in her ears. A vein throbbed in her
15 16 Nancy Martin throat. Her bosom--two astonishing monuments to modern surgical technique--quivered with suppressed fury.
``Who the hell are you?''
``Hello, I'm Nora Blackbird.'' I put out my hand to her.
She ignored my hand and tried to narrow her eyes, but the Botox did its duty. ``Is that supposed to mean some- thing to me?''
``I'm an old friend of Alan's. I just spoke with him. He's looking forward to seeing a play with you tonight.''
``Let him wait. That damn Titanic takes longer to sink on stage than it did in the ocean.'' Cindie Rae's lips--un- naturally puffed with collagen--curled into a distorted smile that had to be painful. ``Darwin's about to give me the Lettitia McGraw handbag I want.''
``No,'' said the other customer. ``Darwin's going to give it to me.''
The aristocratic woman who towered over the desk was none other than Pinky Pinkerton, the elderly heiress to the Jiffy Kitty Litter Box fortune. Although Pinky lived in splendor on Philadelphia's Main Line
