Grave Endings by Rochelle Krich Page B

Connors I’d never seen. There have been times, when I’ve pressed too much, that he’s told me to back off, but now he was angry. I had a glimpse of how intimidating and effective an interrogator he could be.
    â€œAggie wasn’t scared,” I said. “She was happy. She loved her family, her life, her job. She loved helping people. If she was concerned, it was about her clients at Rachel’s Tent. She took her work seriously.”
    â€œExactly.” Connors practically spit the word. In a calmer voice, he added, “So why the hell would someone kill her? And why frame Randy Creeley for it?”

eight
    TRINA CREELEY, I LEARNED WHEN I PUNCHED THE PHONE number Gloria Lamont had given me, worked at Frederick’s of Hollywood—on Hollywood Boulevard, hence the name, and as it turned out, only blocks from Creeley’s apartment. Had I known, I would’ve walked to the store after talking to Gloria instead of wasting my time with Connors. I was muttering to myself on the drive back, and my mood wasn’t enhanced after I circled Frederick’s three times without finding a parking spot. I ended up leaving my Acura three-fourths of the way up Cherokee, almost where I’d parked it before. I had new sympathy for Sisyphus.
    I’d heard of Frederick’s and the sexy lingerie it sells, and you may have seen versions in a mall near you, but this pink-awninged gray building, formerly a garish purple, is the original flagship store. Even if I hadn’t been engaged to a rabbi, I would have felt self-conscious entering an establishment where you can buy musical panties that play “Happy Birthday.” Of course, if one of Zack’s congregants saw me exiting the Art Deco tower, I could have used a variation of the I-only-buy-
Playboy
to-read-the-articles excuse and say I’d been visiting the Lingerie Museum inside.
    The stars on the sidewalk in front of the entrance— Jack Palance and Fleetwood Mac—were echoed in the star-studded motif of the gray carpet inside the store. The walls were purple, the clientele mostly adult, although two women were pushing strollers, and a pregnant customer had a young child in tow.
    To be honest, I was disappointed. I’d expected “outrageous,” but aside from a display case offering specialty items (Body Icing, Whipped Body Cream, a Honeymoon Kit, Edible Panties, Passion Powder) and a rack of costume lingerie (French maid, Cleopatra, a nurse, a sailor), most of the merchandise—nighties, teddies, and other items that echoed the theme “Less is more”—didn’t look all that different from what you’d see on a Hollywood celebrity at the MTV Awards, or at Victoria’s Secret, whose latest Christmas catalog offered panties with holiday jingles. Gives a new meaning to “naughty and nice.”
    The sales staff, all women, were dressed in black. I looked around but didn’t see anyone I thought was Trina. When I asked for her, a licorice-thin, willowy six-foot-tall brunette who introduced herself as Jonnie pointed to a woman several feet away holding up a rhinestone-studded bra for a male customer’s approval.
    I wouldn’t have recognized Randy’s kid sister. According to Porter, she was seven years younger than Randy, which made her twenty-three, but she looked older. Makeup had added the years and a measure of sophistication, and she’d exchanged her brown ponytail for a strawberry blond shag that overpowered her thin face. Fitted black slacks and a long-sleeved black Lycra scoop-neck top showed off a flat tummy and generous curves and an inch of what I supposed was a black lace Frederick’s of Hollywood bra.
    â€œShe’s going to be a while,” Jonnie said. “I can help you, if you like.”
    â€œThat’s okay. I’ll wait.”
    Glancing in Trina’s direction every twenty seconds or so, I flipped through racks and was checking out the