Priced to Move

amazonite. And that’s the bulk of what we’re selling on today’s show.”

Miss Mona backs up a step, her eyes still glued to my face. “I’m going to have to have me a little talk with Livvy. I think you’re about due for a good dosing with her Great-Grandmother Willetta’s wonderful fish oil.”

Oh, joy.

An hour later, I’ve alienated two other women. I doubt Marcie, the cooking-show maven, will ever speak to me again. She caught me holding one of her deadly knives. Even after I showed her the earring back I’d “dropped” among her arsenal, she isn’t buying it. After all, every last one of her desk drawers didn’t have to be wide open for me to scrounge around in one for a butterfly back.

Did I mention I hate this sneaky stuff? True, I’m curious, and I don’t have a thing against a modest amount of . . . probing, but this? This is gross. These women don’t deserve it.

But no one’s figured out what happened to Mr. Pak.

And he’s been dead for almost a month now.

I head for the ladies’ room. And when Julie gets paged out to the lobby, I snag her tote bag and dive right in. Aside from a brag book filled with pictures of her girls and a handful of hair ribbons and diaper pins, I don’t find a thing I wouldn’t carry myself.

What did I think I’d find?

I give Julie’s stuff one last look, and even after this additional perusal, find nothing. But that’s not the end of my escapade. You see, she catches me with my hand in the cookie jar.

“What are you doing?” she asks, her hand on her gun.

Yikes!

That steely voice throws a frost all over me. “Looking for a safety pin. I ripped my hem”—true enough—“and since you have kids, I figured you might have one stashed in here. It’s big enough for you to haul a bathtub wherever you go.” Her eyes, narrowed and dark with suspicion, don’t leave my face for a second. “I don’t have safety pins in my bag.”

“I figured that out.” I wave a plastic ducky-embellished pin. “But one of your diaper pins should do the trick. If you don’t mind, that is.”

Too late for my own good, the killer stare reminds me of the training Uncle Sam gave this woman. She was trained to obliterate the enemy. Right now, the enemy is me.

I flip over the hem of my black jacquard skirt, show her the small rip, and stick the sharp steel end right through that outrageously expensive fabric. Ouch!

The smile I plaster all over my mug is way too bright—as I can see in the mirror not five feet away. “Thanks, Julie. I don’t want the whole hem to come out before I have a chance to fix it. I love this suit, it’s new, and . . . well, you know how that goes.”

Although she smiles back, the smile doesn’t even begin to tickle her eyes. “I guess I do know.”

But knowing doesn’t do a thing for her suspicion, as those eyes blare back.

And that’s when Aunt Weeby prances in. Yes, she does have a foot in a cast. Yes, she’s a senior citizen. And yes, she does prance. Don’t ask me how. It’s a gift.

“There you are, sugarplum! I’ve been looking for you all over the place.”

“You found me, but now I have to head to the set. It’s almost time for my show. I’m really jazzed about it. Miss Mona just told me the parcel of tanzanites we ordered before we left for Myanmar arrived this morning. We agreed I should add them to today’s list.”

“Tanzanites?” Her sniff exudes disdain. “Those them lilac-colored stones I’ve seen at the mall?”

I slip my arm through hers and put as much space between Terminator Julie and me as fast as I can. “You know better’n that. The lavender stones at the mall are okay for those who like their gemstones washed out and with hardly any color. A real, top-gem quality tanzanite is navy blue with a secondary purple color and tertiary flashes of red . . .”

When we’ve put some distance between the gun-toting soldier and us, Aunt Weeby stops. “Well? What did you find out?”

“That nobody likes a snoop.”

“Pshaw! I’ll bet by tomorrow they’ve forgotten whatever it was you did to tweak their noses outta whack.”

“Don’t hold your breath. I thought Julie was going to line me up before her friendly neighborhood firing squad.”

She tsk-tsks. “You let Julie catch you going through a purse? Andrea! I told you to be subtle, sugarplum. What’d you go and do wrong?”

Why me? “She caught me scrabbling through her bag.”

Aunt Weeby’s eyes grow saucer-sized. “You went through

Julie’s purse? No wonder she has her panties all a-twisted. She wasn’t exactly who I would have suspected. Is there a reason you thought a decorated reservist woulda killed your ruby-selling friend?”

That’s not the first mistake in my long list of doozies.

“You could say I got carried away, all right? And, it’ll teach me to listen to your crazy ideas. There’s no one here who would kill Mr. Pak for his rubies . . .”

I let my voice trail off when I remember Danni’s red rock. Did she really get Miss Mona’s okay to take that stone? Did she really set up an employee paycheck payment plan? Is the stone Burmese?