"Perfect," I acknowledged, handing the box back. "We'll take a hiveful."
Marco tossed the box into the air. It vanished.
"Then we are finished. Thank you for the order. You are much easier to work with than many of your species."
'Thanks, I think," I replied sourly.
"I just wonder—" the Djinn began, with a pensive look on his broad face, "because you came here to catch a thief—my cousins and I hope that your new interest in the retail industry will not take your attention away from that ambition."
"Hell, no," I assured him. "That's still our primary focus. All this is to help out with the hunt. Keep that under your turban, though."
"Of course, of course!" Marco exclaimed, overjoyed. "Then we give you the best service, and the fastest delivery!" He kissed me on both cheeks. "I will see you, tomorrow by noon! You will be very pleased, I promise."
"You look happy," Massha declared, as I strutted back into the shop.
Chumley was hammering racks into the wall with his bare hands, aided by Eskina, who passed him nails as he asked for them. The decor was about finished. Three of the walls were mauve, and one was about the same shade as Chumley's fur. The Flibberite painters, looking pale and tired, staggered out with the buckets, ladders and drop cloths. I waited until they were out of earshot before I replied.
"Come and see what I've got," I invited them. The small back room had been divided into two spaces. One of them was the storeroom, for back stock. The other was a cozy mirrored room where customers could see how they would look in a garter without having to try it on
"It's my own spell," Cire explained smugly.
"And it has nothing to do with that hairdresser on Imper who was using the same idea more than twenty years ago, huh?"
Cire looked hurt. "Mine has a lot of new wrinkles! Really!"
"Like?"
"Like," Cire echoed, a crafty expression on his broad face, "that Imp hairdresser didn't have anything in her spell that compared the customer in her chair with the list of Rattila's victims."
"If one of the misused faces enters," Chumley added, "the door will refuse to open. The room is quite secure. I have tested it myself."
"Nice. Nice," I assured them, nonchalantly. "Now, I've been doing really important work."
I spread out the boxes, ribbons, papers, sample posters, and other items on the table in the back room.
Cire goggled. "This is important?"
"You can't just throw open the doors without the right ambience in place," I snarled. "It'd look too amateurish."
I hoped Massha wouldn't toss it back in my face that it had been her idea. But she was turning over the boxes and cards with a look of delight on her face.
"Oh, Aahz, honey," Massha cooed. "They're beautiful! 'Massha's Secret'?" She went scarlet, but she leaned over to kiss me on the cheek.
"Don't get soft," I snapped. But inwardly I was glad she liked it. "Think all of this will lure the thieves in?"
"They will not be able to resist," Chumley assured me.
Massha looked it all over again, holding up the ribbons and other little knickknacks. I felt a surge of pride. Everything was coordinated and professional-looking, and, I was sure, guaranteed to appeal to the chosen market. But an expression of faintly puzzled discomfort crossed her face.
"Aahz, honey," Massha remarked at last, holding a ribbon up next to my face. "You clash."
EIGHTEEN
With pride and trepidation I stood at the entrance to the shop two mornings later. Our hired musician, Gniggo, a Gnomish pianist whose keyboard hung suspended in midair, played old standards, vying desperately against the disco beat blatting from the bards just outside in the corridor and the sale music piping out good and loud from above the store facade. In spite of the protection of Massha's amulet, my ears were killing me.
The Mall itself had opened only ten minutes before, but I was not surprised that hundreds of shoppers had already found their way to the newest store on the block.
Moa himself had agreed to be present at the grand opening. We also had a full contingent of security personnel on guard in case any of the counterfeits made an appearance. Though, after Sibone's intervention the other day, we had to be careful that we intercepted real phonies, not the originals whose identities had been hijacked by Rattila and restored from zombiehood by the emergency infusion of coffee. Most of the rescued shoppers were back in The Mall, making up for lost time. Parvattani, in full uniform, caught my eye from the edge of the crowd and waggled a finger unobtrusively. I grumbled to myself. It meant neither he nor any of his guards had managed to spot any of the impostors coming into The Mall. I knew they were there somewhere; I could feel it.
To deafening cheers, Moa walked out in front of the crowd with his arms raised. He turned toward the store entrance and beckoned.
Massha, decked out in a brand-new outfit of purple silk gauze trousers and abbreviated harem-girl top with silver trim and with her orange hair in a knot on the top of her head, floated casually on her side with her head propped casually on her fist to hover beside Moa. The right leg of the trousers was slit from ankle to hip, letting a lace-and-silk silver, purple-and-pink garter with a tiny silver pouch on the side peek out.
"Mwah!" Rimbaldi Djinnelli threw her a passionate kiss from the front of the crowd. "Bella donna! She is one of my best customers, you know," he told the Imp next to him.
"Massha, will you do the honors?" Moa asked.
Massha reached into the tiny pocket of the garter and drew out a gigantic pair of silver shears three feet long. The crowd gasped, then cheered. She slapped them into Moa's hand.
Moa, an old pro, stepped to one side, allowing the center of the ribbon to be visible to the crowd. "I now declare this store open. You should shop here in good health."
He cut the ribbon and ducked hurriedly to one side as an avalanche of buyers thundered into Massha's Secret.
"Ooooh! Aaaah! That's beautiful! I must have that!"
I allowed myself a wide grin, listening to the murmurs, cries, and howls of approval as the visitors perused the new merchandise.
"Mine!" shrieked a female werewolf, hanging on to one side of a powder blue feather garter adorned with a golden jewel.
"Mine!" bellowed a female Gargoyle, firmly attached to the other end. The werewolf took a swipe at the Gargoyle, and blunted her pink-painted claws on the Gargoyle's stone flesh. The Gargoyle rose into the air, trying to take the disputed item with her. The Djinnies we had hired from one of Marco's cousins started to move in to separate the combatants. Chumley waded in from his post near the wall. I relaxed. If I had any doubts as to whether this place was going to be a success, they were dispelled. We were off to a great start.
Massha plunked herself down in the violet-upholstered "husband waiting chair" under the ostrich-feather fan to the left side of the door.
"I have never been so worn-out in my life!" she declared. "Well, maybe once or twice," she corrected herself with a grin. "This was almost as much fun, though."
"No details!" I protested, trying not to let pictures pop into my head as I counted out the cash box. "That's a secret you can keep to yourself."
The Djinnies, popping gum, finished tidying up what was left of the display, and departed. The guards Par had left on duty sat against the wall next to Chumley.
"Ni-iiice," I drawled, letting coins run through my fingers. "We've already got enough here to pay off the Deveels and about half of Marco's bill. By tomorrow we ought to be running in the black."