Then I remember. I’m not Charlie. Someone named Elsa would not acknowledge a shout-out to someone named Charlie. Knees jelly and tingles of sweat forming across my upper lip, I summon my inner Elsa and continue shopping the phony bags. I don’t budge. I don’t respond. In about two seconds, either my cover is going to be blown. Or not. I race through my options. One: Leave. Two: Leave very quickly.
Three: Calm down. Even if someone recognizes me, they wouldn’t know I have a camera in my bag. Probably. And if they ask whether I’m a TV reporter, I’ll just say no. If they demand to see what’s in my purse, I’ll just say goodbye. Option three it is.
“Charlie Sue Wanamaker? Is that you?” There’s a hoot of greeting, “girlfriend!” and some other shopper named Charlie turns, arms wide, to embrace the woman who almost caused my heart attack. As they kiss the air, I whisper a silent thanks to the journalism gods.
I check my watch. Ten minutes, maybe, until I have to hit the bathroom and change batteries. Time to check out the kitchen. Follow the money.
Chest-high swinging doors, like in some John Wayne western, block the entrance to the kitchen. I take a Delleton-Marachelle suede tote from the table, the one with the fringe. The price tag says one hundred thirty-five dollars. By my calculation, if this honey is real, that would be an eighteen-hundred-dollar discount. I can tell it’s a phony. The fringe is attached under a suede flap, as it should be. But it’s not stitched, it’s glued. Fake.
I carry my prize through the doors, digging in the pocket of my skirt for my wallet. This is the tricky part. And almost funny. Of course I can’t open my hidden camera purse to pay for the counterfeit purse.
Okay, Elsa. You’re on.
I pause at the door, risking a wide shot. There’s only the two of us in the room, so there’s no one to distract her from my surreptitious photographic activity.
“Do I pay you for this?” Elsa-me squeaks, chirpy and chatty. I hold up the D-M, waving it a bit to draw her eye away from my camera-purse. “This is so wonderful. You have so many nice things.”
The woman at the kitchen table has a gray metal box, shoebox size, in front of her. It’s closed, and as I approach her, she puts her hand on top of it.
“That’s all you found?” she asks. “Or would you like me to hold this for you? So you can keep shopping?” She takes the purse from me, putting it on top of the strongbox, and examines the price tag. Her lipstick is probably named Killer Copper, or Molten Metal, and her hyper-permed hair pretty much matches. Her tank top T-shirt, too skimpy for someone her age, proclaims “When the going gets tough…” on the front. I can predict the back.
Elsa is congenial. I hold out one hand, covering the lens with the other. “Elsa,” I say, stepping into reporter waters. Let’s see how she handles my first test question. “Thank you so much for inviting me.” Did she invite me? And will she say her name?
“Just call me Sally,” the woman says. “And no problem, I have my little gatherings all the time. That’s one hundred thirty five dollars. Cash only. Sure you don’t want to keep shopping?”
I open my wallet, peel out three fifty dollar bills, and hand “Sally” the cash. “Just-call-me-Sally” means “Sally” is probably the only name that isn’t hers. I carefully lift my hand away from the lens. “Sally” has opened her cash box and I need that shot.
“I, um, well,” I give Elsa an embarrassed look and lean in closer to Sally as the purse proprietor adds the bills to her stash. The cash box is Fort Knox. The mint. Crammed with cash. I hope the camera stays in focus this close.
“Well, I’d adore to keep shopping of course. And thank you for offering to hold my darling bag, but I’m afraid first, I…” Elsa drops her voice to a whisper, scrunches up her shoulders, points the camera right at the boxful of bills “…have to go to the ladies. Could you point me?”
“The bathroom.” Sally hands me my change, then closes her box and looks around the room. Almost scanning. Maybe she’s wondering why people aren’t arriving with more cash and purses. I suddenly wonder if there’s some kind of security system out there. Making certain the desperate housewives don’t abscond with their purses without paying. “Of course, it’s, uh…” she brightens “…upstairs. Top of the stairs.”
I click the bathroom door closed, and twist the little latch on the door handle. Just to make sure, I lean against the door, my back padded by a set of yellow towels hanging over a rack. I open my purse.
Come on, video. Show me the money. And the loot.
I push Rewind and watch a chaotically jerky mishmash of colors flash and flicker backward. That’s all I needed to see. If I watched it forward, I know it would be pictures.
I click out the tape and search for a pen to mark the label tape one. Damn. I don’t have a pen. This isn’t my real purse. Inside is only a camera. I touch my finger to my pink lipstick, then touch the finger to the tape label. Tape one is pink.
Just in case someone is waiting outside, I flush the toilet, then turn on the water in the sink. I click off the almost dead battery and click on a new one. I insert a new cassette, push Play, and watch the tiny cassette start to reel forward. I’m back in business.
I turn off the water, pause a beat, and open the door.
And there’s just-call-me-Sally. Standing, feet apart, hands on hips, three inches from me.
Rule one of carrying hidden camera. The person you are shooting does not know you have it. No matter what they say, no matter how they behave. The most ordinary remarks will sound suspicious and threatening. But they don’t know. Rule one is banging through my brain as I size up the situation.
“Hi, Sally,” I say, in my chirpy Elsa voice. “Need the bathroom? Hey, where’s my beautiful new bag?”
“Looks like you already have a pretty nice bag,” she replies, pointing. She makes no move to go inside.
Rule one, rule one.
“Oh, this old thing?” I reply. “I think my mother bought it for me. I use it to carry around my art supplies. That’s why I think its time to splurge on a new one. Oh, don’t tell me. The party’s not over, is it?”
“How did you find out about our little get together?” she asks.
Rule one, rule one.
“Oh, golly, I met a lovely girl in the airport, gosh, I think maybe Baltimore?” I reel off the whole story of Regine, and her card, and the Web site. Gauging her reaction the whole time. She backs away a bit. Seems to relax.
Rule two of carrying a hidden camera. The best defense is a good offense.
“You have such a wonderful turnout today. Of course, you have all those wonderful purses. I can’t believe they’re so inexpensive,” I say. Then I tilt my head as if I’d just had an offhand thought. “How does this all work? I mean…” I pause, and glance both ways down the hall, as if confirming the coast is clear and we’re alone. I lower my voice. “Does your husband know about this?”
Sally laughs, quietly, and shakes her head. Her coppery curls don’t budge. “My husband-my ex-husband-is God knows where. If he did know about my side business, he’d probably try to take back the alimony checks. Such as they are. Anyway, are you finished in the bathroom?”
Rule one rules. And has also provided me a way into Sally’s confidence and into purse world. “Oh, don’t I know it,” I say. I hold out my left hand, showing it’s ringless. “I’m in just the same boat. Men. The worst.”
“I hear that, girlfriend,” she says. She eyes me. Up. And down.
I don’t even flinch.
“How does all this work, you wanted to know,” she says. “Why’d you want to know that?”
“Oh, you know.” I try to make Elsa sound calculating but uncertain. “Money. You know. My guy left me with nothing. In fact, took most of what I had. You know.”