I’d have the woman in a corner, pummeling her with questions—questions she would answer or I’d pummel her with something a lot harder. Like my fists.
I entered my closet and surveyed the left side. One of the pleasures of my house was the walk-in closet in the master bedroom. Every woman is born with the dream of a special room where she can hang every item so it can be seen without being crushed. I had such a treasure. Plenty of space and bright lighting. Even mirrored doors. It was about ten by fifteen feet. The two long sides held rods while the rear was a floor-to-ceiling shoe rack. On the left, I hung my better clothes, those I wore when my appearance was important. There was plenty of space because the inventory was quite limited. The right side held my jeans, casual slacks, blouses, and tops worthy of a hanger. Lots of those. I wish I could say the back wall overflowed with shoes, but no. Lots of casual wear and a few flats. Hardly ever worn were several pairs with higher heels, two with three-inch spikes in basic black. There were still lots of empty spaces, however. I looked forward to the pleasure of filling them one pair at a time.
From the left, I took down a navy blue pantsuit, one of my best, a Donna Karan. It wasn’t too pricey, but nice enough for most any occasion, especially courtroom appearances. On behalf of my clients, I had to appear before judges often enough that I needed proper attire.
I knew we lived in a relaxed-clothing society, even more so in South Florida, but I couldn’t do it. Jeans and courtrooms just didn’t match for me. My upbringing, I suppose. Mom drilled into me how to dress for a formal setting.
From the shoe rack, I dragged out a pair of Anne Kleins with two-inch heels. Also purchased for appearances before judges. I never said I bought expensive brands, but I could make myself presentable when the necessity arose.
My dream closet also held shelves on both sides, above the rods. From a shoebox, tucked in the back corner, I took out my backup pistol. It was a subcompact Beretta .32 revolver—lightweight enough that it wouldn’t weigh down my purse. Stopping power was limited, but it looked formidable when viewed from its business end. And it held five rounds I could fire before I threw it at the target and ran. The pistol went into my Coach bag and the pictures of Ms. Garcia into my attaché case. I was ready for the mall, the very image of a successful businesswoman.
eleven
After parking my car, I surveyed the strip mall and the few patrons within view. I was overdressed, no doubt about it. My jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers would have fit in better with most of the places. However, my target was the dress shop, and I felt certain the owner would respond better to professional attire.
I walked in, exuding an air of confidence. I’d had enough wealthy female clients to know just how far upward to tilt my nose and how to look down it without coming up cross-eyed.
I stopped and scanned the area. The shop was neat, the clothing nicely arranged with hanging garments through the middle of the area. Shelving along the walls displayed more items, giving the store a significant inventory. Other than the clothing, the most significant thing were the sale signs. Apparently, everything in the shop had reduced prices. I fingered a blouse. The so-called sale price was a budget buster for me, making me wonder what the original cost might have been and what the mark-up percentage was.
A young woman stood near the rear unpacking a box, shaking the items as she pulled them out. They appeared to be simple scoop necked, single color tops. From my vantage point, there was nothing special about them, but she handled them as if they were spun from golden threads.
A well-preserved woman, perhaps in her fifties, approached me. “ Bonjour, Mademoiselle . May I be of assistance?”
She gave assistance the French pronunciation—emphasis on the last syllable. I drew my lips into a line I
I entered my closet and surveyed the left side. One of the pleasures of my house was the walk-in closet in the master bedroom. Every woman is born with the dream of a special room where she can hang every item so it can be seen without being crushed. I had such a treasure. Plenty of space and bright lighting. Even mirrored doors. It was about ten by fifteen feet. The two long sides held rods while the rear was a floor-to-ceiling shoe rack. On the left, I hung my better clothes, those I wore when my appearance was important. There was plenty of space because the inventory was quite limited. The right side held my jeans, casual slacks, blouses, and tops worthy of a hanger. Lots of those. I wish I could say the back wall overflowed with shoes, but no. Lots of casual wear and a few flats. Hardly ever worn were several pairs with higher heels, two with three-inch spikes in basic black. There were still lots of empty spaces, however. I looked forward to the pleasure of filling them one pair at a time.
From the left, I took down a navy blue pantsuit, one of my best, a Donna Karan. It wasn’t too pricey, but nice enough for most any occasion, especially courtroom appearances. On behalf of my clients, I had to appear before judges often enough that I needed proper attire.
I knew we lived in a relaxed-clothing society, even more so in South Florida, but I couldn’t do it. Jeans and courtrooms just didn’t match for me. My upbringing, I suppose. Mom drilled into me how to dress for a formal setting.
From the shoe rack, I dragged out a pair of Anne Kleins with two-inch heels. Also purchased for appearances before judges. I never said I bought expensive brands, but I could make myself presentable when the necessity arose.
My dream closet also held shelves on both sides, above the rods. From a shoebox, tucked in the back corner, I took out my backup pistol. It was a subcompact Beretta .32 revolver—lightweight enough that it wouldn’t weigh down my purse. Stopping power was limited, but it looked formidable when viewed from its business end. And it held five rounds I could fire before I threw it at the target and ran. The pistol went into my Coach bag and the pictures of Ms. Garcia into my attaché case. I was ready for the mall, the very image of a successful businesswoman.
eleven
After parking my car, I surveyed the strip mall and the few patrons within view. I was overdressed, no doubt about it. My jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers would have fit in better with most of the places. However, my target was the dress shop, and I felt certain the owner would respond better to professional attire.
I walked in, exuding an air of confidence. I’d had enough wealthy female clients to know just how far upward to tilt my nose and how to look down it without coming up cross-eyed.
I stopped and scanned the area. The shop was neat, the clothing nicely arranged with hanging garments through the middle of the area. Shelving along the walls displayed more items, giving the store a significant inventory. Other than the clothing, the most significant thing were the sale signs. Apparently, everything in the shop had reduced prices. I fingered a blouse. The so-called sale price was a budget buster for me, making me wonder what the original cost might have been and what the mark-up percentage was.
A young woman stood near the rear unpacking a box, shaking the items as she pulled them out. They appeared to be simple scoop necked, single color tops. From my vantage point, there was nothing special about them, but she handled them as if they were spun from golden threads.
A well-preserved woman, perhaps in her fifties, approached me. “ Bonjour, Mademoiselle . May I be of assistance?”
She gave assistance the French pronunciation—emphasis on the last syllable. I drew my lips into a line I
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