"Hi," said the teenaged girl seated behind the counter. She put down a magazine and idly tried to guess why the woman was dressed like a Russian spy. "Need some help, ma'am? All the teddies on that rack are on sale this week, and we just got in a new shipment of peekaboo bras."
Mrs. Jim Bob recoiled, but managed to stammer, "I-I don't believe-no, not anything like that." The girl merely waited. "I'm looking for-a gift. It's for a niece who's getting married. I don't approve of this kind of thing, naturally, but her mother said it was exactly what she-the bride, not her mother-wanted."
"What exactly does she want?"
"Not a peekaboo bra," Mrs. Jim Bob said, getting hold of herself. "Something to wear on her honeymoon to make her look"-she struggled but couldn't bring herself to say the pertinent word-"romantic. Cut kind of low and with lace, made out of material you can almost see through."
"Would she prefer black, scarlet, or apricot cream?"
This was harder than Mrs. Jim Bob had anticipated. Here she was in a store with shameless underwear, being forced to choose from colors that sounded filthy. But she had vowed to herself to do it to save her marriage. She was on a Christian mission, even if it might look otherwise to ignorant busybodies, and she wasn't going to allow the snippety clerk to deter her. "Black will do nicely," she said.
The girl went over to a rack laden with perverted merchandise. "What size does your niece wear, ma'am? Does she prefer long or short? These little nighties are cute, and they come with bikini-cut panties."
"Long, I should think, and without any bikini-cut anythings, " Mrs. Jim Bob said, proud of her steady voice. "She's about my size, so she ought to take a medium."
Various gowns, all long and black, were pulled out for consideration, and within a few minutes one had been selected and whisked to the back room to be giftwrapped. Mrs. Jim Bob kept an eye on the door, but she righteously avoided letting the other eye drift to racks that might have items like peekaboo bras and bikini-cut panties.
"Here we go," the girl said as she returned with a box wrapped in silver paper and a white ribbon. "Will this be cash or charge?"
"Cash." Mrs. Jim Bob took out her wallet. "How much is it?"
"Thirty-seven fifty. With tax, it comes to forty dollars and twelve cents. There's no charge for gift wrapping."
She counted her cash, then sighed and took out a credit card. "Use this, I guess."
"Sure," the girl said as she accepted the card and read the name. "If you'd prefer, you can put it on your charge account, Mrs. Buchanon. That way you can settle it with one check at the end of the month."
"My charge account?"
"Your husband opened one more than three years ago; he's one of our best customers. Haven't you ever noticed the gold NAUGHTY NIGHTS stickers on our boxes?"
"Yes, of course I have," Mrs. Jim Bob said with a tight smile. "The gold stickers with the name of the store, right there on the boxes for the last three years. I forgot all about it, but indeed, let's put this on the charge account. In fact, before you ring it up, maybe I'll take another look. My cousin Sharon in Shawsville has a daughter who'll be marryin' soon, and this way I can save myself another trip. Why, now that I think about it, the McIlhaney girl's engaged and so is the oldest Riley girl."
Mindful of her commission, the clerk came out from behind the counter, and an hour later she was in the back room, gift-wrapping half a dozen lacy gowns of all lengths, a silk teddie with a little satin bow, and a single black peekaboo bra for some cousin or other with an approaching birthday.
Mrs. Jim Bob nodded when she was presented with a charge slip. "Four hundred twenty-seven dollars and eighty-two cents," she murmured as she wrote her name very carefully. "But worth it, don't you think? This will save me so much bother down the road."
"Yes, ma'am," the clerk said dutifully.
"Yoohoo," Estelle called as she knocked on my door. "Brenda's feeling chipper enough to go down to the kitchen. You want to come with us? Ruby Bee ought to be finishing up afore too long, and if she's not supposed to make her cake till later in the afternoon, I thought we might do some more sight-seeing."
"No," I called back, too appalled at the idea to lift my head, much less unlock my door. "I think I'll take a nap."
"Suit yourself. Come on, Brenda, Miss City Slicker is too high and mighty to visit the Statue of Liberty."
I listened to their voices until they faded, then rolled over on the bed and burrowed my face into the scratchy bedspread. Despite the temptation to call the airline and find out when I could catch the next flight south, I was reluctant to do so. Or perhaps too cheap, since I might get a call from Estelle the minute the plane landed in Maggody, and find myself in the identical position I'd been in two days earlier-but this time with a depleted bank balance.
A noise from beyond the adjoining door caught my attention. It had occurred to me that Geri might not react well if the cases of Krazy KoKo-Nut had disappeared without a flake. She was angry enough to turn on Kyle, who was dangerously tense. We very well might end up with more than one bloodied body in the kitchen, this time along with a handful of witnesses.
I went to the door and tapped. "Durmond? I was wondering how it went in the kitchen."
There was no response. I told myself it was a helluva lot more sensible to go downstairs and see for myself, then eased open my door and gave his a tiny push. Marveling at my lack of judgment, I opened his door and said, "Durmond? Are you here?" He was not, nor was anyone else. Guilt battled with curiosity, but it was a piss-poor war and two seconds later I was at the dresser, stealthily opening drawers and flipping through the neatly folded shirts, handkerchiefs, and socks. In the bottom drawer I found a faded red sweatshirt emblazoned (at one time, anyway) with the logo of a school called Drakestone College. That answered one question of noticeably minor significance.
One of greater significance came to mind when I saw the butt of a gun under said sweatshirt. It turned out to be a.38 Special just like one all the way back in Maggody, although mine was rustier from not having been used since the year before Eve ate the apple. He'd mentioned having a gun, but he hadn't elaborated on his reason. It was obvious he hadn't been kidding, though.
I replaced the sweatshirt, closed the drawer, and did a quick search of the rest of the room, the closet, and the bathroom. He'd not left his wallet for my perusal, nor had he written any letters and forgotten to mail them. I would have settled for a postcard. The wastebasket held only a crumpled potato chip bag, the copies of the insurance paperwork from the hospital, an empty bourbon bottle, and the stub of a train ticket, His toothbrush was in sorry shape, as was his encrusted razor. Wet towels had been kicked in a corner.
I went back to my room and stood in front of the window. A creature lacking opposable thumbs could do a better job of putting the puzzle pieces together than I was doing, I thought as I watched the traffic inch along. I was trying to come up with something clever when Gaylene Feather appeared below, crossed the street, and took off at a brisk clip, a large leather purse bouncing off her hip with the beat. A moment later, Ruby Bee and Estelle stopped at the curb, exchanged remarks inaudible to me but likely to be heard on Staten Island, and headed in the direction Gaylene had gone.
I would not have described myself as suspicious by nature, but the nurturing of the last thirty years had left its mark. Ruby Bee and Estelle were not taking a nice walk; they were following Gaylene. It did not give me a rosy glow of contentment to see they'd found a new hobby.