Her father’s studio apartment was as small and drab as the others she’d seen in the retirement home, with a bed pushed up against the wall, a couch facing a television set in a cabinet, and an electric burner and under-counter refrigerator occupying the make-shift kitchen on the remaining wall. What set his apartment apart was the view. Up on the second floor, his window looked out on the learning garden of the elementary school next door. In the summer, the voices of children yelling and playing filled the air.
Hank lifted himself from his wheelchair and grabbed a nearby cane.
“You need help, Dad?” He seemed so much older these days.
“No, honey. I’m fine. I got a postcard here somewhere. Where is it?” He slowly made his way to the table next to his bed.
Claudine wandered to the television cabinet and picked up a photo of herself as an eight-year-old. Even at that tender age, her father had her picking locks on the dining room table.
“Let me see,” Hank said, now seated on the bed with a stack of magazines and scraps he’d clipped from the paper. “I set it aside for you. Ah, here it is.”
Claudine examined the front of a postcard, a photo of New York City with the Statue of Liberty in the foreground. She flipped the card to look at the reverse side. “Oh, Dad.”
“What? He’s getting out. He asked about you.”
She put the postcard down and folded her arms in front of her chest. “It’s been over between me and Oz for a long time.”
“They say he’s going into his brother’s business. He has a big janitorial contract, and Oz is going to help him get new accounts.”
“Oswald’s a con man, remember? You really want to take anything he says seriously?”
“Oh, come on, Deanie. You kids were so happy together. It’s not like you’re seeing anyone else, are you?” He felt for his cane. “Besides, with both your skills, you could really clean up.”
“It’s not going to happen, so just forget it.” Sure, Oswald, better known as Oz, or even “the Great Oz” in certain circles, was charming. He had a way of leaning against the doorframe and capturing your glance. Then he’d start to smile, as slow and sweet as warm honey. He used that trick on any pretty woman who crossed his path. And any stooge. Somehow, everyone around Oz ended up doing the work while he counted the loot and stuffed his own pockets. She’d never told her father the details of her breakup with Oz. She’d simply told him they didn’t get along.
Hank shifted to the couch and sat down again. “Sweetie, I’m an old man. I’m not going to be around forever. I don’t want to see you end up alone.”
“I’m not alone. I have friends.” That was a bit of a fudge. Who could she trust in the straight world, anyway?
“I don’t want to make you mad. I only say it because I love you.”
Claudine’s face softened. “I know, Dad.” She parted the few strands of hair stretched across his scalp and kissed the top of his head.
“You should think about making more friends or joining some kind of group. I know you’re getting bored with the work, and managing the shop isn’t going to satisfy you, either. Our kind of life can get lonely.”
“They don’t have social clubs for the bent.”
“Well,” he said, a hint of a smile on his lips. “There’s Larry’s effort. For the Rizzio kids.”
Claudine rolled her eyes. He’d planned this all along, the fink. “Please, Dad.”
“Just promise me you’ll think about it, okay? He needs someone with your brain.”
Claudine only paused a moment. It wouldn’t be too long now that she’d be free of this life. She’d do the Cabrini job, then figure out what came next. It wouldn’t hurt her to humor her father now, especially if it meant she could sidestep a reunion with Oz. “All right. I’ll think about it. Listen. Have you heard about the exhibit of the Rosa Cabrini jewels in San Francisco?”
Eyes sharp, her father leaned forward. “Lay it on Hank, honey.”
Claudine began to run through her plans, but as she spoke, her thoughts were on the Rizzio kids. She hoped she wasn’t making a mistake by promising to help them. It was risky. After all, who else would be stupid enough to get involved?
2
“Lord, I’m an idiot. Why did I ever agree to this?” Ruby Reed pulled her Volvo with its “Chihuahuas on Board” decal into a parking spot a few blocks from Klingle’s department store.
A client had insisted on a Chanel 2.55 handbag, and the only store in town tony enough to stock one was Klingle’s. The thing with Klingle’s was that not only did they have cameras and tag detectors at the door, they had real live security guards. The thought nearly sparked a hot flash.
She shouldn’t have taken the job, but it was the only way she could see to get into the Carsonville Women’s League. The client had beamed at her offer of a “wholesale” Chanel bag and agreed to nominate Ruby. No guarantees, though. When the singer Taffeta Darling stopped by for her now-famous haircut last year, it was a mixed blessing. A steady stream of society ladies now passed through Ruby’s Crafty Cuts, but it had awakened a long-dormant resentment. And a mission.
Ruby tugged her lilac tote bag higher on her shoulder. The cameras at Klingle’s could be disregarded as long as she moved quickly without attracting attention. Most of the time the security crew was watching TV in the back room or ducking out for cigarettes at the loading dock. The electronic tag monitors—she had that covered, too. Her Balenciaga bag, purchased legit online, and a bargain because of its torn lining, had a thick layer of tin foil beneath its mended interior.
So much had changed since her short stint at shoplifting as a teen. Of course, back then she stole things she and her sisters needed—school clothes and food, for instance. Did a little pickpocketing, too, but that was—what?—thirty-five years ago. Her heart tugged as she remembered Larry’s story about the Rizzio kids, in the same predicament.
Klingle’s perfumed air rushed out as she pushed open the glass doors. Ruby pretended to examine a nearby display of calfskin gloves for a moment. Then she pulled herself into a queenly pose and walked toward the in-store Chanel boutique.
“Psst.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Come to me my melancholy baby” tinkled near cosmetics. Marcel the Piano Man. She sighed and turned away from the boutique to approach the piano. As the player seamlessly transitioned to “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime,” she stuffed a twenty in the oversized brandy glass on the baby grand.
“Thanks, babe.” The piano man winked.
Extortion. Still, his services were helpful. She adjusted her bag once again, lifted her chin, and strode off.
The Chanel boutique occupied prime real estate near the front of the store and was separated from the rest of the ground floor by open ebony shelves encased in glass. An Asian man with Clark Gable hair arranged quilted wallets behind the counter. A beefy guard stood, feet at hip’s distance, near the entrance.
“May I help you?” the salesman asked.
Ruby smiled and pulled a hand to her cheek, to better display her surprisingly realistic Bulgari ring. Larry the Fence had made her a good deal on it. The salesman smiled. “My husband wants to buy me an anniversary gift, and I’m thinking I’ll suggest a Chanel handbag.”
“Many of them have a long waiting list, but we might be able to find something for you.” He reached behind him for a red tote.
“Oh, I think that one’s too large. You know, for my small frame.” It had to be the much smaller 2.55 with the chain strap.
The security guard shifted feet, and his shoes creaked. He had a regulation mustache. Probably aiming to be a cop someday. Lucky for her, he didn’t appear to be paying much attention. “Everything’s Coming Up Roses” tinkled from the piano. So far, so good.
“How about this one?” He placed a small handled bag on the counter.
She pretended to examine it, even slipping it onto the crook of her elbow. “That might work. Do you have anything with a shoulder strap?” She set the bag on the counter. T
he more distraction she laid out, the better.
“We do have these.”
Ah, now this was better. He set two 2.55s on the counter—one small in ballet pink, and a larger one in camel. Her client had specified a black bag, but Ruby left some wiggle room saying she wasn’t sure her cousin could get that one wholesale since it was so popular. These were four-thousand-dollar bags, which meant she’d reap half that. A full mortgage payment. But far more important was the possible entrée to the Women’s League.
She slung one purse over her shoulder and walked to the full-length mirror. The guard shifted his stance so he could watch her. He let his arms fall. Maybe she’d underestimated him.
Uneasy, Ruby set the bag on the counter and took up the larger purse. It hit at hip length. The client had specified the small 2.55. It would fit inside her Balenciaga easily, but how could she tuck it away with that oaf of a guard standing over her?
“Do you have the small one in other colors?” she asked.
“I have a powder blue and a nude. There might be a black one in stock in the back. I can go check, if you’d like.”
Perfect. “If you don’t mind,” she said sweetly. The sales associate slipped through a door at the back of the boutique. He’d laid the bags on the counter. All she needed was a moment alone with them.
The security guard’s eyes narrowed.
“What?” she said to him.
“I know your gig,” he said. His voice rumbled bass.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She clutched her bag close.
“You’re going to slip one of those 2.55s in that purple bag, aren’t you? Then you’ll walk out saying your husband will come back to buy one.”
“How dare you.” Ruby’s voice was low and threatening. She’d never been cornered like this. But he couldn’t nail her for anything—yet. She moistened her lips.
“You’re not going to do it while I’m around. They hired me to watch the Chanel bags so I watch the Chanel bags.”
The piano music abruptly changed to “Stop in the Name of Love.” Their signal.
Heart thumping, Ruby whirled around. Her tote knocked a few of the purses off the counter.
The store manager entered the boutique with a pristinely coiffed blonde on his arm. “Here we have our Chanel collection. I’m certain you’ll find something you like here.”
“Ruby,” the blonde said. This was a piece of luck. It was Jocelyn, one of her hairdressing clients and a lawyer running the go-to divorce center for wealthy wives. She backed up and examined Ruby’s face. “What’s wrong? You’re all flushed.”
“That—that brute accused me of being a thief,” Ruby said.
“No.” She glared at the guard. “Impossible.” This comment she aimed at the store manager.
“Did you accuse Miss—uh—” the store manager started.
“Ruby.”
“—this lady of being a shoplifter?”
The guard’s face froze. “I’m keeping an eye on the merchandise. She was ready to slip one of those little bags into her tote. I could tell.”
“What do you mean, ‘you could tell’?”
“She’s my friend,” Jocelyn said.
Ruby’s pulse ticked double-time. Thank goodness Jocelyn had a weakness for half-price Jimmy Choos.
“To my office. Now,” the store manager said.
The sales associate, unaware of the drama, emerged from the rear. His arms brimmed with boxes. “None in black, although I did find a very nice mint green version.”
As the store manager led the security guard out, Ruby knelt next to the fallen purses. “Let me help clean this up.” She swept the bags into her arms and placed them on the counter in a jumble.
“It’s so nice to see you here,” Jocelyn said. “I wonder—”
Ruby tucked her tote closer and smiled. Maybe Jocelyn would ask her to go have a cup of coffee. Or a drink. Just a block from Klingle’s was a cocktail lounge where they made everything from scratch, even the tonic water. It was all the rage. She and Jocelyn might become real friends. Maybe she’d even recommend her to the Carsonville Women’s League. With Jocelyn’s recommendation, too, they’d have to let her in. Then she could clear her mother’s name for good. They owed her that.
“—do you think you could fit me in for a root touchup? I mean, if it’s not too much trouble. Maybe later this week?”
Ruby’s smile faded. “I’m sure I could find time. For you, no problem.”
“Thank you so much. I’ll give you a call. Too-da-loo.” Jocelyn’s heels clicked on the terrazzo floor as she left the Chanel boutique. She didn’t even look back to wave.
Hurt mingled with disappointment. Damn that Women’s League. It’s not like they did any actual good, what with their endless flower shows and tea parties. If it wasn’t for her mother, she’d say to hell with them all.
Jocelyn was now a small blonde figure in the crowd of shoppers. She stopped and air kissed another blonde with an armload of shopping bags. Ruby’s hurt steeled to determination. She’d show them. Ruby would help the kids and do it in a big way. A public way. She’d let them all know just how much they’d underestimated her—and her mother.
Ruby made her way to the exit. The Chanel 2.55 snuggled within her tote didn’t even peep as she passed the monitors. What she’d need was someone with real money and class to help out. Real clout. But who in the petty criminal world had that kind of class?
* * *
Deborah Granzer had told herself she’d stop. She’d promised herself the last time this happened. She had more class than this. She did.
She opened a closet in her lonely mansion and withdrew a form-fitting black cocktail dress. She knelt to pull out the black satin sandals with rhinestone trim, and paused. Behind the carefully lined-up shoes sat a silk-covered box. She poked at its contents. Seven watches—three Rolexes, two Piagets, a Cartier tank, and an ugly Gucci. She replaced the lid and slid the box to the very back of the closet.
She’d sworn she wouldn’t do it again, and she was doing it.
Within an hour, she had shed her identity as the meek wife of the owner of a chain of supermarkets and was pulling her car into the parking lot of a hotel out by the airport, one she hadn’t visited before. It was a nice hotel—a businessman’s hotel.
Swinging her evening bag, she strode to the lobby and followed the din of music and clinking glasses to the lounge. She knew she looked good. The turned heads of a few men, fingers paused over their smartphones, confirmed it. Tonight she had given more attention to makeup than usual and even dabbed on a few drops of a bottle of perfume she’d once felt pressured to buy at Klingle’s. Yes, she got attention, but she sure didn’t feel like herself. Then again, that was the point.
“What’ll you have?” The bartender placed a paper coaster in front of her.
“Cosmopolitan,” she answered. A drink her alter ego, Sabine, would choose.
She turned to the main part of the lounge and surveyed its mostly male, mostly suited clientele. She shifted on her bar stool and drew one long leg over the other. Across the lounge, a businessman raised his head from his laptop long enough to catch Deborah’s glance. He wore some kind of chunky black watch with a lot of buttons. Probably a C.P.A. She shut off her smile and shifted her gaze elsewhere in the room.
Ah, there was one. And if she wasn’t mistaken, that was a Patek Philipe on his wrist. She’d love to have a closer look. He smiled, slipped his smartphone in his pocket, and rose to join her.
Half an hour later, Sabine had listened to Patek Philipe’s business at the sewage treatment plant under construction, laughed at his feeble jokes, and touched his sleeve. He seemed like a nice guy, really. They all did—most of them, anyway—but how could they be when they left their wives all alone?
She leaned forward to whisper something in his ear and gently rested her palm on his knee. She slipped her other hand up his sleeve in a caressing motion. Within seconds, his watch was in her satin clutch.
&n
bsp; He flushed and took a sip of Scotch. He glanced behind him, then at Deborah. “I don’t usually do anything like this.”
Deborah smiled encouragingly. The jerk.
He took another sip. His lips widened to a grin. “But no one would ever know. And it’s not every day I meet someone like you.”
Got him. “Tell you what,” Sabine said in a breathy voice. “Leave your key, and I’ll come up in a few minutes. It’s more discreet that way.” By then, she’d be on the freeway.
He bolted the rest of his drink and let his eyes linger on her chest before rising. “In a few, then.”
“In a few,” she said, raising her barely-touched Cosmopolitan in a mock toast. The power rushed through her bloodstream. And the guilt.
* * *
The next day, Deborah dragged herself from the house. Although the watches were shoved far back in the closet and covered with a down jacket and her husband Louie’s old hiking boots, she swore she heard them ticking all night.
But she had to go to her hair appointment. Even though he never seemed to be around to appreciate it anymore, Louie liked her to look good. She’d tried Carsonville’s elite spa, the Shangri-La, but she wasn’t comfortable there. Too much white marble and condescension. This small shop on the east side she’d chosen today, Ruby’s Crafty Cuts, was getting a lot of buzz.
At the salon, a middle-aged woman with an elaborate updo and hot pink capris held out her hand. “Hi, honey, you must be Deborah. I’m Ruby.”
Deborah’s eyes widened as she took in the salon. It had been converted from the house’s living room, complete with a yellow-painted fireplace next to the mint green shampoo sink and fluffy powder blue throw rugs everywhere. A baby gate partitioned the salon from the kitchen. Two Chihuahuas raced to the gate and pressed their noses against the slats.
“They’re adorable,” Deborah said.
“That’s Marty and Freda. I foster Chihuahua rescues.” She waved a hand toward the kitchen. “Go on, darlings. Mommy has to work.”
“Can’t we have them in here?”
The Booster Club Page 2