Killer Kale Chips

by Patrice Lyle

  I nodded but didn't retract my request. "If you'll please get me some toilet paper, I'll bring it to him."

  "Fine." She picked up the key ring and opened the cabinet below. She dug around and then rose, empty handed. "Sorry, but we're out."

  I stared at her and waited for her to offer an option. When she didn't, I looked out the window and spotted our salvation.

  Duane Reade.

  I crooked my head toward the window. "Why don't you run over to the drugstore and buy some?"

  She shot me a squinty-eyed look. "Why don't you? He's your boyfriend."

  "Fiancé actually," I said, gesturing at the gown I wore. "In the name of customer service, why can't you go over and make the purchase?"

  "Um, hello," she said as she gripped the counter. "How do I know this isn't some scam you two are playing to get me to leave the store so you can steal that Queen Bathsheba wedding gown? That dress costs over—"

  "Sixty-some thousand. I know." Not another Queen Bathsheba. Of all the luck to fall in love with the same label as my knee-length shredded disaster of a gown.

  "Speaking of the QB," she said, looking me up and down. "Why don't you take it off and then go to Duane Reade?"

  The ting of my phone confirmed what I was about to say. "Sorry, but there's no time." I slipped my purse off my shoulder, removed a twenty-dollar bill, and handed her my purse. "There. You've got my wallet, ID, cell phone and, most importantly, my fiancé. I'll be back in a few minutes."

  "Thanks, Doc." Tex's voice boomed from the back of the store.

  I smiled and took off. Once outside, I lifted the gown up past my ankles to ensure it stayed clean and waited for the traffic to clear. Waiting for a crosswalk signal was a luxury I couldn't afford. A few minutes passed until I had a clean break. I darted across the street as fast as I could in bare feet—my tennis shoes were in the dressing room—and tried not to think about the potential cesspool of germs.

  A seriously hot soak in the tub was in my future.

  A gray-haired man dressed in a suit gave me a funny look as he held open the door to Duane Reade. I thanked him and hurried inside. No one was at the register as I passed by, headed for the paper goods aisle in the back. I grabbed a nine-pack of Charmin. Yes!

  Once I reached the checkout stand, my luck ran out. Three elderly ladies with carts filled with paper towels, toilet paper, shampoos, and dish soaps stood in line comparing coupons. The first lady in line removed a pair of manicure scissors from her big blue purse and slowly cut away the edges of a coupon. Oh, for the love of dark chocolate mousse. This was going to take all day.

  "Excuse me." I held up my twenty-dollar bill so the clerk could see it. "I'm in a hurry, so is it all right if I just give my money to you for this?" I lifted my purchase for his view because I didn't want to yell out what I was buying. "You can keep the change."

  He shrugged. "That's some expensive TP, lady. What, you late to your own wedding or something?"

  "Or something." I set the money on the counter and raced outside.

  I lifted my gown and darted past several people strolling about. Once I reached the curb, I prayed for a red light so I could to cross. A few minutes passed, but the traffic didn't relent. I was really starting to get annoyed when I noticed someone familiar in my peripheral vision.

  I turned to see Ruby and Callie standing on a nearby corner, deep in conversation. And they didn't look happy. Ruby's face was redder than her hair, and Callie wiped tears from her eyes. My PI mind went on overdrive.

  Were they arguing about something to do with Veronica's murder?

  I stepped back from the curb just as a group of joggers dressed in matching outfits passed me. I quickly stepped in stride with them, which was rather difficult to do in a wedding gown with bare feet while carrying a nine-pack of Charmin. As we approached the corner, I spotted the perfect cover.

  A hot dog cart.

  As soon as the joggers turned to cross the street, I ducked behind the cart and set the Charmin down. I hoped the guy peddling hot dogs wouldn't notice me. If he did, I'd buy a hot dog. Then I realized something.

  I didn't have any money. I sighed and turned to spy on Ruby and Callie. I strained to hear what they were saying, but it was useless. Too much street traffic drowned them out. It was obvious from Ruby's splotchy red face and Callie's now-quivering chin that something was going on.

  Then Ruby turned and looked past me. The cold look on her face made me shudder, but there was something even scarier. Something that had become visible in the waistband of Ruby's jeans when her jacket shifted.

  The butt of a gun.

  What was Ruby doing with a pistol? I had to call Detective Malone immediately, but my phone was across the street.

  Where my boyfriend was stranded in the bathroom.

  My mind raced with ideas about what to do. I could ask the hot dog vendor to borrow his phone and call Tex, which would allow me to follow Ruby and Callie. See what was going on and rescue Callie, if she was a victim.

  Of course, there was the issue of the Charmin delivery and the fact that I was wearing a sixty-thousand-dollar wedding gown that I hadn't paid for.

  I didn't have a chance to decide because just then Ruby hailed a cab. It stopped near the corner, and maybe it was my imagination, but it looked like she nudged Callie with the butt of her gun—through her coat—to get into the cab.

  Callie's jaw hung open as she scooted inside. Once the door closed, she spun in her seat and stared out the back window, pleading with the throng of street traffic for someone to have witnessed her kidnapping.

  I leapt up, wired on adrenaline to run back to the bridal salon so I could call Detective Malone and report the crime. In my exuberance, however, I startled a man who had just bought a foot-long hot dog. He lost his balance and crashed into me.

  Catsup, mustard, and all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Operation QB Poser

  "Holy chocolate babka!" My chest tightened when I glanced at the bejeweled QB gown. The bodice was spattered with mustard and catsup along with a few chunks of pickle relish.

  "Geez, I'm so sorry." The squatty man with the Jersey accent handed me a napkin. "I promise I didn't see you. Why are you hiding behind a hot dog cart in a wedding gown anyway? You a runaway bride, lady?"

  I didn't have an answer I wanted to share. A sense of dread filled my heart as I stared at the yellow and red globs affixed to the front of the QB gown. The design was reminiscent of a kindergartener's finger painting. It would have been rather festive had it not been for the fact that I now owned this sixty-thousand-dollar painted gown.

  Why hadn't I jumped up with the package of Charmin in hand? If I had, the package would be decorated with condiments and not the dress.

  The hot dog vendor offered me more napkins, which I accepted. Once I finally wiped off the globs, the fight drained out of me. I didn't have the bankroll to pay for this dress, and I certainly wouldn't ask Tex for the funds. Then it hit me.

  Tex! Oh no! I left my cowboy stranded!

  I grabbed the Charmin and ran for the curb. A moment later, a brief opening in the heavy traffic arrived. I ran across the street and burst into the bridal salon.

  The salesgirl's gaze went straight to the condiment stains covering the gown's bodice. "You are so paying for that dress."

  "I know," I responded as I sailed past the register. "Let me give the Charmin to my fiancé first, all right?" Before we discuss twenty-year financing plans.

  The Employee Only door was unlocked, and I hurried through. The first door on the right was labeled Bathroom. I knocked.

  "Doc?" Tex sounded so hopeful.

  "Yes." My voice sounded the opposite, however. It came out squeaky and nasally. I glanced at the dress, and my eyes stung.

  The door creaked open. Tex's jaw hung up open when his gaze stuck to my second ruined wedding gown.

  I handed him the Charmin. "Are you okay?"

  "I am now." He took the TP and held up a finger, as if telling m
e he would be with me in just a second.

  He shut the door, and I scooted toward the wall, where I sank to the carpet. What did it matter if the dress got a little lint on it? It was ruined. Completely ruined.

  Now I'd welcome the knee-length look.

  Tears bubbled up, and I buried my face in my hands. The worst part was, Ming's prophecy about me having trouble shopping for wedding dresses had come true. Along with the tsunami of stomach troubles. Why couldn't I be a normal girl who didn't have a rude dead psychic texting her and who didn't end up involved in murder investigations?

  I was deep in the throes of a major pity-party when the bathroom door creaked open again. Tex emerged holding the package of Charmin, minus two rolls, looking chipper. His facial coloring had returned, and he wasn't sweating any more.

  He sat on floor beside me and wrapped his arm around my shoulder. I burst into tears, and he enveloped me in his tender embrace. After I was all cried out, I let out a long sigh, and he handed me a wad of Charmin.

  I laughed and blew my nose. "Are you seriously taking the rest of that with us?"

  "Of course. This is the expensive stuff, Doc."

  "Yeah, it really is this time. It cost me twenty dollars." I relayed the entire story to him. About how I'd left a twenty on the counter at Duane Reade, hidden behind a hot dog cart, witnessed a kidnapping, and ruined my dress.

  He winked at me. "You left out the best part."

  "What's that?"

  "You coming to my rescue." He tilted my chin for a kiss. "We'll pay for the dress and take it to a dry cleaner."

  Holy chocolate babka! He didn't know the gown was a QB.

  "Where's the price tag?" He glanced at the fabric near the short sleeves and didn't find a tag. Then he asked me to lean forward to see if the tag was on back.

  "It's at least sixty grand, Tex. She said it was a QB."

  He fiddled with the fabric on my back a moment. "You sure about that?"

  I turned to face him. "Yeah."

  "I'm no expert in designer wedding gowns, but that thar QB label is not the same as the QB label you have on the shredded dress."

  I bolted forward. "What?" I crooked my neck to see what he was talking about. I couldn't see the label, so I stood up and retreated to the bathroom. When I grasped the handle, Tex cleared his throat.

  "Not sure I'd go in there, Doc."

  "I don't care." I held my breath and went inside. Sure enough, the label on this dress looked different than the other one.

  The tiny gold crown on the label of the shredded dress was flanked by the letters Q and B on either side of it. This label had the letters Q and B mashed together inside the crown. I'd seen enough of Aunt Alfa's fake designer purses to know something was up.

  But how would I determine which one was a scam?

  I hurried outside the bathroom and grabbed Tex by the hand. "You're right. This label is different than the other one. You have such a good eye."

  "I sure do," he said as he raked a gaze up me. "I know a good thang when I see one, Doc."

  Aw. What would I ever do without him? My eyes burned, but I forced them to stop. Operation QB Poser required me to be rational, not a girl blithering over her hot boyfriend.

  "Let's go have a chat with that salesgirl, shall we?" I said. "Either she has some explaining to do or that other bridal shop does."

  "I reckon so."

  We strode toward the counter and found the salesgirl chatting on her cell phone again. She hung the instant she saw us.

  She handed over my purse and then presented us with an invoice for sixty-five thousand dollars. "I was just talking to my sales manager about this incident. I allowed you to wear the gown outside the store, but I did not authorize you to splatter it with condiments." She glanced at me, her skinny eyebrows furrowed. "Why would you scarf a hot dog dripping with catsup and mustard while wearing such an expensive dress?"

  "I think we have a more pressing matter at the moment." I stepped next to her and turned around. "Check out the QB label." My tone told her it was a command and not an option.

  She let out a tiny gasp, and her breath danced across my shoulders.

  I whirled around. "What was the gasp for?"

  Her eyes got rounder than the pearls on her necklace. Were those fake too?

  "Nothing," she said quickly. "I was just reacting to the scent of catsup. I'm not used to smelling that on such an exclusive gown."

  Oh, please. "I happen to own a QB gown, and the letters Q and B are on either side of the crown, outside the crown, on the label. This label has the letters inside the crown." My gaze bore into her and made her squirm.

  Her cheeks reddened as she slid the invoice toward me. "The other gown must be a fake. Unfortunately, we will require full payment for the gown due to the damage."

  Tex set the Charmin on the counter. "Give us a minute, will you, ma'am? We need to discuss our options."

  I tugged Tex near a round display where we could chat privately. "Did you see her response? She's guilty. She knows it's a fake. We're not paying for it."

  "I know." Tex tapped the screen of his phone a few times before angling it so I could see. "Look here. It's proof."

  He'd pulled up a website dedicated to exposing fake designer bridal gowns. The page we reviewed was dedicated to QB.

  He pointed at the real label. "The shredded one's the real thang, Doc."

  I gazed at several of the fake QB labels and shook my head. "Unreal. I've heard of fake purses but not fake wedding gowns."

  "Me either. What's next? Fake dark chocolate almonds?"

  My pulse accelerated as I shot him my serious-Piper look. "Tex, that's so not even remotely funny."

  He grinned. "Sorry, Doc. What should we do?"

  "I'll show you." I grabbed his phone and tugged him along. Once we reached the counter, I presented the salesgirl with Tex's phone. She stared at the image of the real label and fiddled with her pearl necklace.

  Tex retrieved his cell phone from the salesgirl and turned toward me. "I reckon we should call the police. It's our civic duty to report a crime."

  "Please don't," the salesgirl said as she swiped away a tear. "None of this was my idea. It was my boss's idea. She made me do it."

  Her whiny confession didn't intrigue me because my PI mind had glommed onto what Tex had said about reporting crimes. His words reminded me about Ruby, the gun, and Callie seemingly being forced in to the taxi. I removed my phone from my purse and dialed Detective Malone. She answered on the first ring.

  "Dr. Piper." Detective Malone sounded peppy today. "I'm glad you called. I wanted to thank you. I started drinking alkaline water on your recommendation and am already feeling more energized."

  That was awesome, but I had important intel to share. "How wonderful, detective. Look, I really need to tell—"

  "And I'm going organic with my diet too," she gushed.

  "Fabulous." Normally, I reveled in hearing my patients' newfound wellness enthusiasm but not today. I had major information about the murder. "I saw something very strange today and—"

  But she cut me off again. "Lastly, Dr. Piper, I want to commend you for reporting the threatening letter you received this morning."

  There was an edge of finality in her tone that made me uneasy.

  "Detective, can I share something that's occurred today?" I asked her again, hoping she'd actually listen. "It's really important that you hear this."

  "Sure, Dr. Piper. Go ahead."

  I spewed my story about our visit to the dress shop, Tex being stranded in the restroom—in delicate terms, of course—my trip to Duane Reade, the fake dress, and lastly spying on Ruby and Callie.

  "Ruby had a gun, detective. I'm sure of it. And I believe she forced Callie into the backseat of that cab." I took a much-needed breath. "I'm not sure why, but I think it has something to do with the murder."

  "That's over now, Dr. Piper. The letterhead was a crucial piece of evidence." Pride swelled in the detective's voice. "We made an arrest tod
ay. Kale Chip Ken is now in custody for the murder of Veronica Forks."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Anythang for My Piglet

  What the fennel? No! I remained stoic despite the PI emotions raging inside me.

  I took a deep breath. "Detective Malone, I don't think Ken's the killer. Why would he leave an incriminating note on my door? And what about Ruby forcing Callie into the cab at gunpoint?"

  I could sense the wheels screeching inside her head through the airwaves.

  "You saw Ruby point a gun at Callie?" she asked carefully.

  "Not quite," I admitted. "But Ruby nudged Callie with the butt of the gun, which was hidden in her clothes. I know I saw that, and Callie looked panicked."

  "I'll have my detectives check on Callie to make sure she's all right, but you can stop playing private eye now. We've got the killer in custody."

  Every PI cell in my body knew the fallacy of her statement, but it wouldn't be wise to say so. Detective Malone had made her opinion of my part-time PI gig quite clear. That wasn't going to stop me, however.

  I'd search for Callie myself. And I'd question Ruby.

  I changed gears and hoped the detective would buy it. "What about the fake designer dress that we almost got scammed into buying? What are you going to do about that situation?"

  The salesgirl gasped and pulled her arms against her chest. "I thought you were going to let that go in light of all the other stuff you told the police."

  I waved away the ridiculous notion. "You tried to make us give you sixty-five thousand dollars for a fake QB gown," I said to the salesgirl. "That's not forgettable."

  "I'll send a squad car, Dr. Piper," the detective said. "Stay there until they arrive and take your statement."

  * * *

  After providing the NYPD with our official statements about the fake bridal gown—an industry that was apparently on the rise—Tex and I were happy to arrive at our hotel room. We walked inside, and I had big plans for a soak. My inner PI needed a major dose of bubble-bath therapy to ponder the news Detective Malone had shared.