Candy Cane Murder (Hannah Swensen #9.5)(71)

No, this year, I would march into Macy’s and buy practical gifts that everybody could return for something they really wanted. No dithering, no shilly-shallying. If I stuck to my schedule I’d be out of there in an hour.

Hah!

Three hours later, I was still wandering around in a daze, wasting time looking at impractical, impossible-to-pack items like rotisserie cookers, musical flowerpots, and macrame hammocks (perfect for Cousin Joanie’s Chicago condo).

By the time I finally managed to get my act together and pick out my unimaginative assortment of ties, scarves, pajamas and slippers, the stores were crowded and long lines were snaking at the registers. What would’ve taken minutes to buy hours ago, now took forever.

Finally, when the whole horrible ordeal was over and my credit card lay gasping in my wallet, begging for mercy, I headed over to the food court to reward myself with a corn dog and fries.

Which, I have to say, were pretty darn delicious.

I sat there, inhaling my food, grateful that I had a whole 364 days before I had to go through this nightmare again.

And then, just as I was polishing off my fries, I remembered Angel Cavanaugh, and her sledgehammer hints for a Christmas gift.

I’d checked out the L.A. Girlfriends guidebook, and sure enough, although normally frowned upon, “modest gifts” were permitted at Christmas.

I rummaged in my purse till I found the newspaper ad THE DANGERS OF CANDY CANES

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Angel had given me, for a pair of jeans from a store named Hot Stuff. Scrawled in the corner of the ad, in Day-Glo pink marker, were the words: “I wear a size 0.”

I almost choked on my Coke when I saw what they cost: Eighty bucks!

No way was I spending $80 on that kid. Twenty dollars was “modest” enough for me and my MasterCard.

Then I remembered Angel sucking at that inhaler of hers, gasping for air, and a wave of sympathy washed over me. I thought of her crummy apartment and her overworked dad.

Something told me she wasn’t going to be getting a lot of gifts this Christmas. Or any other Christmas, for that matter.

Oh, what the heck? I was already in hock to MasterCard for decades to come. What was another $80?

With a weary sigh, I tossed my corn dog wrapper in the trash, and set out to buy a pair of Hot Stuff jeans.

Luckily, there happened to be a Hot Stuff store in the mall.

But not-so-luckily, when I got there, I discovered they were sold out of jeans in Angel’s miniscule size 0.

“Would you like me to see if I can find a pair in another store?” the bouncy teenage clerk asked.

Hot Stuff was one of those stores geared to the Clearasil Set, whose idea of a size Large was my idea of a handkerchief.

“That would be great.”

She called around and minutes later got off the phone, grinning.

“Good news! They’ve got one pair left out in Glendale. I told them to hold it for you.”

“Glendale?”

I gulped in dismay. Do you know what it’s like getting from Century City to Glendale in L.A. Christmas traffic?

Think the Donner Party, with palm trees.

No way was I going to trek all the way out there for Angel Cavanaugh.

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Laura Levine

Then once more the image of Angel sucking on that inhaler flashed before my eyes, and the next thing I knew I was crawling along on the freeway, watching my fingernails grow.

I swear, I would’ve made better time on a walker.

It took me nearly two hours to get there, and another twenty minutes to circle around looking for a parking spot.

Finally I found one at the far end of the lot and hiked over to the Hot Stuff store.

A vacant-eyed teenager sat at the checkout counter, chatting on the phone in what I could only assume was a personal call.

“She didn’t! Really, Cheryl? She actually said that? Why, I’d never speak to her again if I was you, Cheryl. No, sir. I’d tell her exactly where she could put that pom-pom of hers!”

I stood there listening to this fascinating monologue for a few minutes, then finally managed to get her attention.

“Hey! You, with the phone glued to your ear. You’ve got a customer. Remember us? The people you’re supposed to be helping?”

Okay, so what I really said was “Ahem,” but she got the message.

“Hold on a sec,” she said to Cheryl, then turned to me with an irritated sigh. “How may I help you?”

“You’re supposed to be holding a pair of jeans for me at the register.”

She stared at me blankly. “I don’t have any jeans here.”

“Sure, you do. They called a couple of hours ago from Century City.”

“I dunno about any call. I just started my shift five minutes ago.”

“Could you please just look behind the counter for a pair of jeans.”

“Oh, all right.”

With a grudging sigh, she poked behind the counter.

“Nope,” she gloated. “No jeans here.”

“Are you sure?”

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“Look for yourself if you don’t believe me.”

I looked, and she was right. Nada. Zip. A jeans-free zone.

Grinding my teeth, I showed her the ad from the paper.

“You have any of these jeans?”

“Over there,” she said, pointing vaguely to a rack in the back of the store.