offspring.
At her condo, Sarah made coffee and cut two slices of pie.“I gather you’re not going to the police with this new information?” she said.
Helen just looked at her.
“You’re afraid Detective Dwight Hansel will make your life difficult, and you’ll need an expensive lawyer, like Joe had to get.”
“Yes,” Helen said. It was partly true. The whole truth was worse.
“Then you’ll have to solve Christina’s murder yourself.”
“I’m no detective. I don’t know where to begin.”
“Find out who has an alibi for the day Christina died.”
“Weekend,” Helen said. “Well, sort of. The police think she was killed sometime between Saturday evening and Monday morning. Christina’s last phone call was with her ex-boyfriend Joe, about six-twenty Saturday night. She’d left the store by then. I know for sure that Joe has no alibi. Niki claims to have one. I can’t tell you about the blackmail victims or Brittney.”
“Then you need to know. Invite them all to the store, the way Nero Wolfe gets people to come to his brownstone. Then ask where they were the weekend Christina died.”
“How am I going to get these women in the store at the same time?”
“They shop there all the time. Invite them for a special sale.”
“Juliana’s never has anything as plebeian as sales,” Helen said. “But we are getting in some lovely new stock. I can offer them a first look. A special champagne showing. It will cost me a couple of bottles of bubbly.”
“Don’t you dare pay for the champagne yourself. Take the money out of petty cash.”
“You’re right. I will,” Helen said defiantly. “What’s old Tightwad Roget going to do? Fire me?”
Sarah’s cell phone rang, and she looked at the caller’s number. “Oops. I have to take this. Make yourself at home.”
This might work, Helen thought. She used to analyze financial reports in her other life. Now she could analyze alibis. Helen remembered something else. There was a twenty-five-thousand-dollar reward if she caught Christina’s killer. She didn’t have to bring in the killer at gunpoint. Just give the police information leading to the arrest and conviction.
Sarah’s call was taking longer than she thought. Helen read an old
The more they talked about the special showing on the drive home, the more enthusiastic Helen became. “I’ll hold the champagne showing in two days. Tell them it’s a one-time-only offer. I’ll start calling first thing tomorrow. There’s just one problem: How am I going to get these women to talk about where they were when Christina died?”
“Tell them you know the time of death. They’ll jump in with where they were. It will be easier than you think,” Sarah said. “Trust me.”
“That’s what got me into trouble in the first place,” Helen said.
The champagne showing had everything a Juliana’s regular could want: secrecy, snobbery, and special treatment.
Helen called each woman and made her swear not to tell a soul, knowing she would talk the instant she hung up. Her conversation with Tiffany was typical.
“You have to keep this quiet,” Helen said. “I can only invite five special people. I couldn’t ask Melissa or Bianca, much as I love them, because, frankly, you’re a better customer.”
“I won’t breathe a word,” Tiffany said. “I’m so honored.”
She was, too. Helen felt a little sad.
Niki jumped at the chance to be one of the chosen. Brittney said she’d be delighted. Even the hard-boiled Sharmayne said yes. That really surprised Helen. But she suspected the women liked the idea they were getting special treatment in a store that prided itself on exclusivity.
Helen’s one failure was Venetia. She couldn’t reach her at home or on her cell phone. Helen kept calling every half hour. It was five o’clock, the day before the special sale, when a shrill voice answered the phone.
“Venetia?” Helen began. “This is Juliana’s, and we’d like to invite you to a special—”
“I can’t believe you’d have the nerve to call here,” the woman screeched. “You’ve ruined my daughter-in-law. Ruined her.”
Whoa. Venetia’s husband had definitely married someone like Mom.
“Do you know where she is?” the screecher continued. “In a private hospital, trying to recover from the damage you did. She went to your store to return a purse and came home raving. I don’t know what you gave her, but it sent Venetia over the edge. We had to commit her that afternoon. She’s been there ever since. If it wouldn’t bring more shame on our family, I’d call the cops, you heartless—”
“Wait, it wasn’t me,” Helen said. “I’m the new acting manager.”
“Where is that terrible Christina? Did they finally fire her?”
“Haven’t you heard?”
“I don’t hear anything. I’m trying to keep my son’s family together.”
“Christina was murdered,” Helen said.
“Good,” the woman said, and slammed down the phone.
Venetia had an alibi, and it was ironclad: She was in a detox ward when Christina was murdered. But that made Helen one person short for the champagne showing. The solution was standing—or rather, moping—in front of her.
“Tara,” Helen said. “I need a big favor. Tomorrow, would you be a customer instead of a sales associate? If you buy anything, you can use your store discount. I’ll also pay you for your time.”
Tara squealed like a little girl getting a special treat. “That’s your idea of a big favor? I’ve been dying to go. I was thinking of quitting so I could be a customer. I’ve already got my eye on that new black D&G.”
Helen showed up at the store that Friday morning with three bottles of chilled Piper-Heidsieck Extra Dry for the five women.
“Aren’t you going to put out any snacks with that?” Tara said.
“No, they buy more if it’s just champagne,” Helen said. They talk more, too, she thought.
Tara looked dubious. “Niki doesn’t hold her liquor well,” she said. “Neither does Tiffany.”
“I promise I’ll send anyone who gets tipsy home in a cab,” Helen said.
At ten-forty-five, while Tara shooed out the uninvited customers, Helen hung an elegantly lettered sign on the green door. It said, “Closed for a special event. Reopen at two p.m.”
By eleven-oh-two, all the special guests had arrived. Helen popped the first champagne cork. It was like she had fired a starter’s pistol.
The five women bought as if shopping was a competition sport, an Olympic event. They spent like drunken congress-men with taxpayers’ money. The clothes Tara bought cost more than Helen made in a year at Juliana’s. Niki beat her in the shopping sweepstakes. Brittney spent more than both women combined.
The women spent with style. They tried on dresses that laced fetchingly up the front like corsets or bared elegant backs. Skirts were slit to the thigh. Blouses showed off smooth shoulders or slender waists.
The fabrics were rich or sheer or so frothy you wanted to dive into them.
The colors were edible. Tiffany bought a delectable peach slip dress. It’s stylish on her, Helen thought. I’d look like I was in my underwear.
Sharmayne came out in a severe black Chanel suit piped in white, and black ankle-strap heels straight out of a bondage catalogue. The effect was incredibly sexy. Everyone applauded, and Sharmayne did a catwalk strut through the store.
They are so beautiful, Helen thought. They’re like flowers in an exotic garden. Except one of these beauties
