Shop Till You Drop

Did Tara kill Christina?

Christina had preyed on her friend, bleeding her for money, month after month. Tara had to pretend they were still friends to keep her privileged life. She would only be free if she had those photos. Tara was so desperate, she beat her head against the wall until she bled, then made up the story of the armed intruders.

But Tara still didn’t have the photos. She needed Christina alive.

Helen could see a frustrated Tara beating Christina to death with something heavy like a tire iron. But she couldn’t see tiny Tara stuffing the dead body into a barrel and then lugging the heavy barrel out to Biscayne Bay.

Tara seemed so delicate, so fragile. But delicate Tara could carry huge armsful of clothes to the dressing rooms. Fragile Tara could lift big boxes of stock. Tara was strong as a stevedore.

Helen wanted to find Christina’s killer. She was tired of being afraid. She was afraid Detective Dwight Hansel would discover her past. But she didn’t want the killer to be Tara. She liked Tara, despite her occasional outbreaks of silliness.

But how could Helen unravel this mess? She had no detecting skills. She didn’t know the meaning of the mysterious words on Tara’s flyer, “Love Will Keep Us Together.” They could be a slogan, a song, a code. Or a note Christina jotted down that had nothing to do with anything.

Maybe the key was hidden in those appliance manuals. Maybe there were more blackmail victims. But every time Helen slipped back to the stockroom, the doorbell rang, and she had more customers.

Helen soon saw any search was hopeless while the store was open. She’d wait until this evening. She was itching to read those appliance manuals. She had to know if there were more juicy secrets buried in those dry pages.

The wait was almost unendurable. It grew worse when the last person Helen wanted to see walked into Juliana’s—Niki. The woman who paid for the murder of Desiree Easlee now flashed her wedding ring like a trophy. She’d won, although Helen did not think Jimmy the Shirt was any prize.

The bride wore black, a good color for a killer. Even Helen had to admit that Niki made a radiant bride, until you got close. Then her mouth was bitter, and her eyes were hard. But the Playboy non- centerfold finally had a man. Helen wondered if he could endure her perfume until death parted them.

“I just heard about Christina,” Niki cooed. “It’s so terrible. She would have been so happy to know that Jimmy and I are married.”

“I thought Jimmy was going to marry Desiree,” Helen said. She couldn’t resist.

“She died,” Niki said, shortly. The perfume cloud around her quivered.

“She was murdered, wasn’t she?” Helen said. “It must have been a shock when you saw the reports on TV.”

“I didn’t. I was devastated when Jimmy . . . well, when Jimmy and I split up. I went home to Mother. I spent the whole month in Athens.”

“Georgia?” Helen said. Niki could have driven from Georgia to Florida and back without leaving a trace.

“Greece,” Niki said.

That would be a little tougher.

“I flew straight back when I heard about the carjacking. Poor Jimmy was so lonely. He threw himself into my arms and said he still loved me. He admitted Desiree was a mistake. He wanted to get married right away, so we’d never be apart again. We got our license and went to a judge, then caught a plane to Costa Rica. We’ve been there ever since on our honeymoon.”

Clever Niki was telling Helen she had an alibi for both Desiree and Christina.

“How was Costa Rica?” Helen asked.

Niki wrinkled her nose. “Full of bugs. But I don’t care. I’m so happy.” Her lips twisted into a Lady Macbeth smile.

What woman would marry a man right after his fiancee was buried?

The woman who hired her killer.

Jimmy was another gem. His bride-to-be was brutally murdered, days before their wedding. Her coffin was barely underground before he married another woman. Jimmy had not bothered to mourn his fiancee one week. The “mistake” had been erased.

Niki and Jimmy deserved each other. Helen was glad when Niki finally left Juliana’s, even though the bride didn’t buy anything. Her perfume lingered like an accusation. Helen felt like airing out the store.

The day crawled forward. Helen and Tara dragged clothes in and out of dressing rooms. Customers dropped ten-thousand-dollar gowns on the floor, left Hermes scarves draped over chairs, and abandoned belts on counters. They bought almost nothing. It was six-twenty when the last customer left Juliana’s.

Tara had been pale and subdued all day. She did not speak to Helen, except to ask the price of a Versace shirt. Now Tara said, “I guess you won’t want me working here any more.”

“Why?” Helen said.

“Now that you know what I am,” Tara said.

“I know you’re a good saleswoman, and I expect you here at ten in the morning,” Helen said. “Why don’t you go home before Paulie starts worrying? I’ll close up.”

“Thanks,” Tara said, and managed a weak smile. But she left as if she was escaping from jail. Poor Tara, trying live down her long-buried past. She must have dreaded the day it would be unearthed. Helen knew how she felt. She had her own secrets.

Helen locked the door, closed out the cash register, and put the money in the night safe. Alone at last.

The stack of appliance manuals was sitting in the stockroom, safe and dull as a pot roast. Helen paged through telephone booklets, security system manuals, and light fixture instructions. She shook each one and fanned the pages.

She found six things, but they were hardly fodder for blackmailers. They were harmless articles. Five were the sort of stories proud mothers showed their bridge clubs. The sixth was a routine news story.

Helen found the first story hidden in a computer manual. The pill-popping Venetia was “Local Mother of Year” in the Golden Shores Gazette. She was praised as the “spirit of Golden Shores volunteerism,” who raised half a million dollars for the children’s home. “But she’s also the busy mother of two little boys,” the article oozed.

Venetia’s Adolfo suit could have come from Nancy Reagan’s closet. Helen was surprised how attractive Venetia looked when she wasn’t twitching.

The puzzle was Christina’s bold, black writing on this clipping. She’d scrawled “Mother and Child Reunion.” Definitely a song title, a Paul Simon hit from the 1970s.

What did that mean? Why hide this story in a computer manual? It could not possibly be blackmail material.

Next, Helen found a newsletter for a Wichita nursing home. The Sunny Gables Monthly had named Cindy Pretters as Employee of the Year.

Despite the big hair and bad makeup, Helen could see that Cindy was Tiffany, before her eye job. Cindy/Tiffany’s baggy uniform was a far cry from the clothes she wore now, bought by her rich old boyfriend, Burt.

Even ten years ago, Tiffany had a knack for pleasing older men. She was photographed with four nursing home residents. The three elderly men looked at Tiffany like she’d just let them into heaven. Tiffany’s charm seemed to escape the only other woman in the picture. Mrs. Vera Crinklaw, age ninety-two, stared stoically into the camera, as if she’d been forced to attend at gunpoint.

Christina had scrawled another song title on the Sunny Gables Monthly: “Silver Threads Among the Gold.” Helen’s grandmother liked to sing that song. It was even older than the Captain & Tennille hit.

That was two articles.

In a booklet for a battery-operated clock, Helen found the third: a People magazine