“It was an accident,” I told her. “I was chasing after Kenny, and you got in my way.”
“This is the cosmetics department,” Joyce shouted. “You can't just go around being a lunatic, chasing people through the cosmetics department.”
“I was not being a lunatic. I was doing my job.”
“Of course you were being a lunatic,” Joyce said. “You're a dented can. You and your gra
ndmother are screwy tunes.”
“Well, at least I'm not a slut.”
Joyce's eyes got as big as golf balls. “Who are you calling a slut?”
“You.” I leaned forward in my purple pumps. “I'm calling you a slut.”
“If I'm a slut, then you're a tramp.”
“You're a liar and a sneak.”
“Bitch.”
“Whore.”
“So what do you think?” Mary Lou said to me. “Are you going to get these shoes, or what?”
By the time I got home I wasn't so sure I'd done the right thing with the shoes. I shifted the box under my arm while I unlocked my door. True, they were gorgeous shoes, but they were purple. What was I going to do with purple shoes? I'd have to buy a purple dress. And what about makeup? A person couldn't wear just any old makeup with a purple dress. I'd have to buy new lipstick and eye liner.
I flipped the light switch and closed the door behind me. I dumped my pocketbook and new shoes on the kitchen counter and jumped back with a yelp when the phone rang. Too much excitement for one day, I told myself. I was on overload.
“How about now?” the caller said. “Are you scared now? Have I got you thinking?”
My heart missed a beat. “Kenny?”
“Did you get my message?”
“What message are you talking about?”
“I left a message for you in your jacket pocket. It's for you and your new buddy, Spiro.”
“Where are you?”
The disconnect clicked in my ear.
Shit.
I plunged my hand into my jacket pocket and started pulling stuff out . . . used Kleenex, lipstick, a quarter, a Snickers wrapper, a dead finger. “YOW!”
I dropped everything on the floor and ran out of the room. “Shit, damn, shit!” I stumbled into the bathroom and stuck my head into the toilet to throw up. After a few minutes I decided I wasn't going to throw up (which was kind of too bad since it'd be good to get rid of the hot fudge sundae I'd had with Mary Lou).
I washed my hands with a lot of soap and hot water and crept back to the kitchen. The finger was lying in the middle of the floor. It looked very embalmed. I snatched at the phone, staying as far away from the finger as was humanly possible, and dialed Morelli.
“Get over here,” I said.
“Something wrong?”
“JUST GET OVER HERE!”
Ten minutes later the elevator doors opened and Morelli stepped out.