by Susan Cox
“Um. No gift wrap.”
“There’s no extra charge,” I assured her, but she shook her head. I slid the package into a bag. “Anything else?”
“Did you take off the price?”
I raised an index finger decorated with the sticky label I’d pulled off the bottom of the jar. You’d be surprised how many people want proof you’ve done that. Like it’s something anyone would lie about.
She looked around, apparently not yet ready to leave. “The store is pretty small. Where do you keep your extra stock?”
“We keep supplies in the garage; there’s plenty of room. I don’t own a car.”
She dug around in her shoulder bag and took out another notebook and laid it on the counter. She gave me two ten-dollar bills, which she found crumpled loose in the bag. “Nowhere else?”
“If we’re jammed up, Nicole has one or two places she juggles things around in. That happened around the holidays, but otherwise we don’t order too far ahead. We need to move merchandise through quickly.”
I rang up the sale and handed over her change. “Is your friend in jail?”
Her eyebrows went up.
“She doesn’t get out. No refrigerator. No tub. No gift wrap—as if the contents of a gift have to be checked before she gets it. She could be a nun. But what would a nun do with a strawberry face mask?”
“She has six years to serve on a sentence for armed robbery,” she said, eyeing me thoughtfully. “She was eighteen and drove the getaway car. She says I saved her from a life of crime and helped her find the Lord. It’s her birthday in a few days.”
I looked noncommittal.
She said: “Have you always been in retail business?”
“I used to be a photographer.” A lifetime ago, I thought.
She raised an encouraging eyebrow.
“A sometime paparazzo,” I went on, hoping I wasn’t giving away too much. “Chasing down reluctant celebs and their lovers. Great fun.”
“Why did you give it up?”
“I developed too much sympathy for my prey to be a good hunter,” I said aridly.
“Not a problem I’m familiar with.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“Is your partner here today?”
“She probably dropped off some merchandise earlier, but—no.”
“Maybe I’ll catch her at home.” Her glance sharpened. “By the way, we’ve taken the seal off the attic rooms at the building where Mr. Callahan fell.”
“Oh,” I said. And then, because she seemed to expect more, I added: “Good.”
“There are new people moving in; some sort of shelter or halfway house, I’m told.”
“Already?” That was an unpleasant surprise. I’d been lobbying neighborhood association members for a couple of months, trying to calm the panic about a harmless group home in the Gardens, but they were still twitchy. I thought I had a little more time to bring them around.
“The attic rooms contain some storage boxes and furniture. The shelter people say it’s nothing to do with them,” she said, still watching me closely.
“The property manager has been renting out storage space. I guess I’d better mention it at the association meeting tonight. I know some of us have stuff at number twenty-three. The new people will want it out of there. We didn’t expect them to move in so soon.”
“I’d like a list of the people who have their belongings stored in the building. Can you get that for me?”
“I’ll do my best.”
She nodded and surprised me by glancing around the store and adding: “Do you have somewhere private we can talk?”
“I’m here alone. This is as private as it gets. What do you need?”
She hesitated. “This is something I’d prefer to discuss without customers coming in.”
I didn’t feel too good about that, but I walked to the door, locked it, and flipped the Open sign to Back in Ten Minutes. I led her back into our tiny office and waved her into the only chair.
“I can stand, Ms. Bogart. Why don’t you take a seat?” She waited while I sat down, and cleared her throat. “We do a surface investigation of everyone who witnesses something like Mr. Callahan’s death,” she began. I felt the color drop out of my face. “In your case of course we learned about the robbery and attack on you last year.”
“Of course you did,” I said, and tried to keep the relief out of my voice. Could my life tolerate any more irony? I was relieved she was digging into my terrifying run-in with a knife-wielding robber instead of my family history.
“The man was never caught.”
“No. No, he wasn’t. He covered his face. I wasn’t able to identify him.”
“I’m sorry to bring it all up again.” She paused briefly. “We’ve been told Mr. Callahan was a petty thief. Is that true?”
I nodded. “He called it hand jive, and thought people were fools to leave their stuff where it could be stolen,” I said.
“And yet people hired him?”
“He was a fixture around here. Mostly he worked where there was nothing to steal. Attics. Garages. Places like that.”
“I see. You’re our only witness to Mr. Callahan’s death, but even you didn’t see the start of his fall and, according to you, Davie Rillera—”
I stood convulsively and ran both hands through my hair. “I saw him sweeping downstairs and I spoke to him!”
While my heart rate had about doubled in the past sixty seconds, she looked unfazed. “A weapon isn’t always designed for violence. Sometimes ordinary household items can kill. Think of that broom, Ms. Bogart.” She pantomimed a waist-high lunge with both fists around an imaginary broom handle. “Mr. Callahan had a deep bruise on his midsection, which the M.E. tells me would have occurred immediately before his death.”
The image of a broom being shoved at Tim Callahan as he stood on a windowsill painting the window frame was all too clear.
“I’m told your young helper would do anything for you.” God, she was relentless.
“Not absolutely anything,” I said anxiously, falling back into my chair. “Besides, why would I want him dead? It’s not as if Tim was the one who robbed me. I don’t think.” God, that was something I’d never even considered. “And Davie was—”
“I know, Ms. Bogart. He was in the backyard sweeping.” She nodded coolly and let herself out of the front door.
CHAPTER FIVE
By the time I recovered, the Ten Minutes was closer to half an hour and I found several customers waiting patiently on the sidewalk when I reopened. They kept me busy, so it was some time before I noticed Lichlyter had forgotten her notebook. I couldn’t resist the impulse to leaf through it but it was almost new. One page had been used for the kind of doodles people make while they’re talking on the telephone: several circled words, the most unusual of which were “Rhino” and “Chinese” surrounded by lines, arrows, and squiggles. There was a rough sketch of the Gardens and a list of names—mine, Nicole’s, and Davie’s among them. Vaguely sinister perhaps. I wrote her name on a Post-it note, stuck it on the notebook in case she wanted to retrieve it, and tucked it at the side of the cash register. It only occurred to me much later that she might use the notebooks so she could “accidentally” leave them behind somewhere.
To settle my nerves I began to unpack some new merchandise, including a lidded Waterford crystal jar I filled with small lemon soaps. I planned to leave it on the counter as a sort of showpiece to see if our customers were interested in more high-end, gift-type items. We add them to inventory slowly, partly because it doesn’t make sense to tie up money in unsold stock, but also because our customers are conservative about change. In a town famous for its flexible attitudes toward love, race, marriage, and politics, San Franciscans can be curiously hidebound in small things. They react immediately (and not always positively) if we move things around in the shop or if their favorite face cream suddenly appears in a newly designed box. I wasn’t sure the Waterford jar would fly, but the price poi
nt was worth the experiment.
I gave the jar pride of place on the counter and took a handful of Gibney Brothers soaps out of the carton on the floor to mark them. I began with my favorite white gardenia. We’ve had none in stock for weeks and I’m the only one who’s cared. Still, what’s the point of being in charge if you can’t have a few things you like? I took some comfort in the familiar routine. Nicole had designed a new price label for us, and this was the first time I’d used it. God, and profits, are in the details.
Almost before I started, a customer came in—all muscles and a blond crew cut. He asked for help deciding between a kimono or loofah gloves as a birthday gift for his lover. It’s funny how people here are so comfortable with using that word. Part of the American habit of revealing everything about themselves—“lover” being so much more descriptive than “girlfriend.” I often wonder if people are bragging, or simply clueless that no one cares about their sex lives. Especially those of us who have no sex life of our own. He went on to tell me more than I needed to know about her, including that she was a city firefighter and he found the smoky smell of her skin and hair after she’d fought a fire so sexy he could hardly control himself. I urged him to pick the kimono.
“No buttons,” I said neutrally. And five times the price of the loofah gloves.
His expression brightened. “Right. So which do you think, the blue to match her eyes or—” His voice faded as he considered the possibilities and I left him to it, dreamily holding up various kimonos against his reflection in our long mirror.
The bell over the door jangled and Haruto stuck his head in, ponytail swinging, his arms full of garden tools. In between his days at Aromas he was installing a Japanese garden on the next block. I didn’t know when he did his computer hacking and I was careful never to ask.
“Hi, Theo. Do you know anything about this ecumenical shelter or whatever going in at number twenty-three?”
“It’s an ecological center attached to a halfway house.”
“Our favorite surgeon says the shelter is for drug addicts,” Haruto said. “They’ve started moving in, did you know?”
“Kurt is a pain. He’s so worried about his damn property values—” I took a breath. “It’s for a handful of women and children,” I said firmly.
“They didn’t waste any time moving in,” he grumbled.
I laughed unkindly as he dropped a rake and a couple of machete-like choppers. “What are you up to, anyway?”
He stood everything against the open doorway and wiped his brow with his jacket sleeve. “I’m supposed to install moon bridges and waterfalls in a yard the size of a Kleenex with old shrubs taking all the space. I’ve borrowed every tool in the toolshed. If axes and machetes don’t do it, I’ll hire a backhoe.”
I helped him rearrange his load until it made a neat pile across both of his arms. “You’re sure about this shelter thing?” he said. “Homeless drug addicts won’t be pissing in the flower beds and sleeping on the benches back in the garden?”
“Trust me,” I said, and waved him on his way. He staggered down the block with his precarious burden, looking like a cartoon character.
His half-assed concerns about the shelter had me worried. I hoped it wasn’t going to raise its ugly head at the association meeting that night. I didn’t want Haruto—or anyone—stirring things up again, even a little.
I heard a clatter and banging from outside that could only be hoes and rakes and machetes hitting the ground. “Haruto!” I said aloud.
“Huh?” said my kimono customer, following me out the door. I was in time to see Nicole sail past Haruto without looking at him. He grabbed her by the arm and spun her around to face him. After a brief exchange of not-very-friendly words, she twisted away from him, and after a frustrated moment he gathered up his ungainly burden and stalked away.
Nicole came toward us, rubbing her upper arm. Her curly brown hair was wild around her shoulders. She was wearing jeans, a flashy gold-and-blue-sequined bustier, and last night’s makeup. She brushed her hair back from her forehead with a would-be casual gesture. But her face was pale.
“You okay?” the kimono guy said gruffly to Nicole.
She smiled at him automatically. “Sure, sweetie. Boyfriend trouble.”
Nicole followed me inside. The man went back to the kimonos, looking dissatisfied.
“What the hell was that about?” I whispered.
She chose not to hear. “Did you find the Gibney Brothers stuff?” she said.
I waved a hand at the carton, still open on the floor.
“Great. Look, I’ve got to pay my rent, can you lend me fifty?” The scene with Haruto was apparently forgotten.
“You’re not staying?” I said.
She gave her sequins an ironic downward glance. “Does it look like it?” I must have visibly bitten my tongue because she held up a hand. I jerked my head toward the office and she went there ahead of me, tossing her curls and impatiently snapping her fingers.
“All I need is fifty,” she said as soon as I closed the door. “You’d already done the bank drop when I got here last night, or I wouldn’t—” She stopped short at my expression. “Dammit, it’s my money, too. Come on, Theo. I’ve got the rest of what I need. And my money troubles are over. I’m owed big money—I am! But if I don’t pay the rent right this minute I’ll be out on the street.”
This was Nicole’s strength in recent weeks—fifteen seconds of indignation, irritation, wheedling smiles, and pathos.
“You’ve been saying someone owes you money for two weeks,” I began.
“Big money, sweetie. Honest.”
“You sold a painting?” Nicole’s work had developed a good, local reputation.
“Not exactly.” She smiled a secretive little smile, which did nothing to ease my mind.
“We should talk—”
She flushed and waved away whatever else I might be planning to say with an impatient gesture. “By this time next week I’ll be straightened out and we can sort out how much I owe the store. I’d have it now except for goddamn Tim Callahan. My bloodsucking landlord wants his money now, this instant, and I’m short fifty. I ran into him in the street and he’s waiting, if you can believe it!”
“What does Tim Callahan have to do with—”
“Dammit, Theo! I need the money now!”
I thought of how this rapidly developing drama would play with the customer outside and calculated whether I could get through the morning with fifty dollars less in the till.
“For God’s sake, Nicole, this can’t go on. Where have you been? You’re never here; you’re not home—Haruto said he had to open up yesterday.”
“I came by last night to deliver the Gibney Brothers stuff,” she said sulkily. And to rifle the cash drawer, I thought but didn’t say. She patted my cheek and fingered her lips nervously.
I glanced through the two-way mirror into the shop as I heard the old-style spring bell jangle. A woman came in. Two people was at least one too many to leave in the shop alone.
I went back outside and with a small inner struggle, took two twenties and a ten out of the cash drawer.
“I’ll write an I.O.U.” she said, picking up the inspector’s notebook and glancing at the doodles.
“No need,” I said.
She dropped the notebook as if it were red hot and unexpectedly clasped me in a fierce hug. “It’ll all work out,” she whispered.
“I’m worried about you,” I said, returning the hug. She had been my first friend in the city and the past few weeks hadn’t changed my affection for her. Even if she was driving me crazy.
“I know, sweetie. I know. I’ll pay back the store in a few days. I’ve been feeling like shit for the mess in your apartment; I’ll take care of that, too. Pretty soon everything will be back to normal, okay? So stop worrying!” She laughed and patted my cheek.
As she passed the counter, she picked up the two bars of newly priced soap knowing I wouldn’t say anything. At nine dollars
each, retail, it was probably a halfpenny worth of bread to this intolerable deal of sack, but it still grated. Don’t you love how Shakespeare has a phrase for everything?
“The new labels look great,” she said. “Anyone bought any of this damn gardenia soap?”
“I’ve only had time to label those two,” I said with a reluctant grin.
“Put out some of the rose; we’re low and it sells.” She hesitated a moment and made for the door.
“Take care of yourself,” I said, meaning it, and trying not to sound as worried as I felt.
She glanced back at me with a mocking smile. “I said ‘don’t worry,’ sweetie. Bye.” She waggled the soaps at me. “White gardenia, eh?” She winked and scrunched up her nose, then waggled them at me again as she left.
I saw her shove the bills at a stolid-looking man on the sidewalk and take off down the street. Sure enough, I recognized her landlord, who carefully counted out the money. At least she hadn’t lied about that, although I detected a certain number of uneasy ad-libs in the story of money coming in.
My new customer was carefully inspecting lavender sachets. She was sniffing every little lace bag as if she was going to find one that smelled different from the rest. As she looked about to make up her mind, the last of the red-hot lovers decided on the white kimono with the splashy red hibiscus print.
“Red’s her color,” he explained as he handed me his credit card. “She loves San Francisco’s red fire trucks. Most places use that safety yellow or green. Hershey, Pennsylvania, uses red now but she says they used to use brown. Chocolate brown. See?” He smiled happily.
I sheathed the ninety-seven-dollar Egyptian cotton kimono tenderly in tissue. The kimonos had been Nicole’s idea and they were moving nicely. She was a clever merchandiser. Her only recent failure had been novelty soaps shaped like pistols. I told her I refused to sell them; she dug in her heels and refused to return them. Before now we had always been able to settle disagreements amicably, but the gun-shaped soaps were gathering dust in a box under the cash register, solid evidence of our recent lack of accord.