Candy Cane Murder (Hannah Swensen #9.5)(72)

I hurried over to the rack and checked out the jeans.

Thank heavens, there was one pair left in a size 0. I was just about to reach for them when I felt someone tap me on my arm.

I turned to see a short roly-poly woman at my side.

“Would you mind helping me out?” she said, smiling sweetly. “I need one of those sweaters.”

She pointed to some sweaters stacked on a shelf above the jeans.

“No problem,” I said.

“Thank you so much! I need a pink one in a size small. It’s for my niece. All the kids seem to love this place.”

“Don’t I know it,” I said, reaching up to get the sweater.

I turned to hand it to her and I saw, to my consternation, that she’d taken my size 0 jeans from the rack.

“Excuse me. I was going to buy those.”

“Oh?” she said, still smiling sweetly. “So was I.”

“But I saw them first.”

“Well, I’ve got them now.”

For the first time I noticed a glint of steel behind that smile of hers.

“You don’t understand. I called the store and told them to put these jeans on hold for me.”

“What a pity they didn’t.”

“I drove out here all the way from Century City in rushhour traffic.”

“And all for nothing!” she tsk-tsked. “Well, thanks for helping me with the sweater.”

She traipsed off with the jeans clutched to her ample bosom. And I went a tad ballistic. I charged after her, lunging 246

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for the jeans like a bull with anger management issues. But she wasn’t about to let go of them. Not without a fight.

And that’s exactly what happened.

I’m ashamed to say we had a most undignified tussle over those jeans.

I leapt into the fray with confidence. My roly-poly adversary was a good twenty years older than me. Surely I could take her down.

But she was a surprisingly tough fireplug of a lady. After much mutual pushing and clawing, she managed to land a powerful shove that left me flat on my fanny, the contents of my purse scattered on the floor around me.

“Bye, now!” she trilled, skipping off to the register. “And thanks again for the sweater.”

Muttering a string of curses not fit for your delicate ears, I gathered my belongings and stormed over to the checkout counter, where the clerk was ringing up her sale.

“I just love the holiday season!” she chirped to the bored teenager. “It’s such a happy time of year, don’t you think?”

“Whatever,” grunted the clerk.

“I hope you can live with yourself,” I hissed in Ms. Fireplug’s ear.

But she went on chatting, blithely ignoring my eyes boring holes in her back.

Finally the clerk finished her end of the transaction and asked Ms. Fireplug for her credit card.

“Of course, dear!”

She reached into her purse, and suddenly her good mood vanished.

“My wallet,” she gasped. “I’ve lost my wallet!”

“Hah!” I crowed. “That’s what you get for being such a lowdown sneak.”

“If you’re not gonna buy this stuff,” the clerk sighed, “I gotta do a void.”

“I’ll take those jeans,” I piped up.

THE DANGERS OF CANDY CANES

247

Together the clerk and I managed to pry the jeans from Ms. Fireplug’s fingers. And after the original sale was voided, I whipped out my credit card and paid for them.

Now it was Ms. Fireplug’s turn to stand glaring at me.

“There you go, Ma’am,” the clerk said, handing me the jeans in a gift box. “Have a nice day.”

“Oh, I will. I most definitely will.”

Then I reached into my pocket for a little something I’d found when I’d been crawling on the floor picking up the contents of my purse.

“I believe you dropped this in our scuffle,” I said, tossing Ms. Fireplug her wallet.

And then I headed out into the mall, the sweet sounds of her curses following in my wake.

I had just started the Himalayan trek back to my car when I noticed a store that stopped me in my tracks. The place was called The Cap Shack, and a sign in the window said: PERSONALIZED BASEBALL CAPS FOR ALL OCCASIONS.

And there in the corner of the window was a bright red cap with the words Fiddler on the Roof embroidered across the front. Fiddler, not Fiedler. The play, not the roofers. It was the only theatrical title among the Old Fart, I Love Grandma, and Kiss Me, I’m Irish baseball caps on display. What, I wondered, was it doing there?

Suddenly the wheels in my brain, rusted from a day at the mall, started spinning. I had a hunch how the Fiddler cap got there and I marched inside to see if I was right.

A skinny kid with a bobbing Adam’s apple sat behind the counter, a baseball cap on his head.

“Welcome to The Cap Shack,” he intoned with all the enthusiasm of a funeral director.

“Hi, Francis.” I knew his name was Francis because it said so on his hat. “I’m hoping you can help me out.”

“You looking for work? Trust me. You don’t wanna work here. It stinks.”

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“No, I’m not looking for work. I just want to know if you keep a record of your job orders.”