maids?”
CHAPTER FIVE
NIC HADN’T BEEN KIDDING when she said Fannie’s Flowers was in a snit. Just my luck, or Jayne’s luck, it was the boss herself.
A cashier showed me to a back room of the bustling store where Fannie labored over a gargantuan flower arrangement. Her work was lovely, her manner was not.
“Great,” she snapped. “A substitute.”
She paused and I fidgeted. She maneuvered random buds and I swallowed a lump of dread. She looked ticked and harried and I anticipated getting bounced from a job that wasn’t even mine.
She glanced at her watch, me. “What’d you say your name is?”
“Evie.”
“Listen, Evie, if you screw this up—”
“I won’t.”
“—Jayne’s fired.”
No pressure there.
“I’m thinking of letting her go anyway.”
“Please don’t.” I tucked my hair behind my ears, wet my lips. I told the truth. Sort of. “She’s been going through a rough time, but she’s coming around and—”
“Yeah, yeah. Life’s a bitch.”
I wondered if Fannie was always this brisk or if she was just having a bad day. I thought about my normally carefree, wacky friend and wondered if this job was worth saving. Except it did help pay the bills.
It also funded her Madame Helene habit.
One problem at a time, Evie.
Right.
Fannie jerked her head. “Follow me.”
Instead of showing me to the door, she led me deeper into the storage room. Mostly it was filled with flowers and vases and baskets—florist stuff. But beyond a case of ribbons and cards, I spied two racks of costumes—entertainer stuff.
“Ever done anything like this before?” Fannie asked.
“Lots of times.” Not a bald-face lie, just a spin on the truth. No, I’d never walked into a commercial office or a private home, singing birthday or anniversary greetings, dressed as a clown or some such stuff. But I’d appeared at plenty of parties or special events dressed as a clown or some such stuff. Sometimes I sang. Sometimes I danced. Sometimes I just roamed around in character making people laugh. I’m thinking that qualified me for this gig.
I was feeling jazzed and confident, but then Fannie produced my costume.
My mouth went dry. “You’re kidding.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Is there a problem?”
It was my worst nightmare, literally, come to life. “No problem.”
I stared at the furry black costume, my mind reeling with the cosmic significance. For the past month I’d had sporadic dreams about gorillas. One involved wearing a gorilla suit, much like the one in Fannie’s arms, hawking used cars with a sign that said, You’ll Go APE For Our Prices. My ex-husband had been there with his arm wrapped around his new pregnant wife. He’d made an insensitive crack about my age. I took the dream literally, thinking it indicated the hairy demise of my career.
But Jayne had consulted one of her new age books, offering me a different account. “If you dream about apes then beware of a mischief-maker in your business or social circle. Unless the gorilla is docile. Then the dream is a forecasting of a new and unusual friend.”
I knew this was probably one of a hundred interpretations, but it did pique my interest. Since Arch and Beckett had entered my life at that time, it was hard to dismiss as hooey. Call me intrigued. Or obsessed. I still didn’t know if the ape dreams were warnings of trouble or forecasts of something good. I just knew I was still having them.
Fannie dumped the heavy suit in my arms then handed me my head, I mean the ape’s head. I didn’t even want to think about what it smelled like inside. Depended on who wore it last and if the shop had had it cleaned. I started itching and sweating and worrying about peripheral vision. But mostly I pondered the significance.
“You’ll want to put that thing on after you get there,” Fannie said, now searching through files. “Hard to drive wearing those big monkey feet.”
“I have a ride,” I said distractedly, flashing back on the time I’d arrived at an event via limo dressed as a bumblebee. Only this time Arch was my driver and I’m not sure I wanted him to see me as a gorilla. Dame Edna would have been sexier.
“Do you know the song ‘Born in the U.S.A.’?” she asked while pulling out a folder.
I knew every Bruce Springsteen song ever written. Well, the biggest hits anyway. My ex-husband had been a Springsteen fan since the singer’s Asbury Park days. As an entertainment agent, one of Michael’s favorite stories was the time he almost signed The Boss as a client. That story had always made me a little sad, because I could hear the wistfulness in his voice. Like me, Michael had had bigger dreams than Atlantic City. I’m beginning to think it’s the only thing we ever had in common.
“I know the song,” I said, feeling more anxious by the moment.
“Lucky for Jayne.” Fannie handed me two tickets and one long-stemmed rose. “You’re going to sing that song with a twist on the title—‘Born in the U.S. APE.’”
“Clever.” Not.
“Then you present the guy with the rose and tickets. They’re a gift from his wife.”
Front row seats to an upcoming Springsteen concert. Lucky man. Generous wife. I shuddered to think what she’d paid. “What’s the occasion?”
She looked at the file. “Second anniversary of their first date. Sappy. But sappy is good for business. They’re having lunch at a gourmet restaurant.” She handed me a piece of paper. “Here’s the exact location, the guy’s name, and his description.”
My breath seized when I read the info. I’m pretty sure the blood drained from my face.
Fannie cleared her throat. “Is there a problem?”
I thought about Jayne. “No problem,” I croaked.
I wondered what I’d done to deserve this? Or maybe it was some sort of cosmic test. If I could survive this, I could survive anything.
I pulled an elastic band from my hip pocket and tamed my hair into a ponytail. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll slip into costume now.”
“Whatever floats your boat,” said Fannie. “Just make it quick. You’re due in twenty minutes.”
“BRILLIANT.” ARCH CHUCKLED as I stuffed my bulky gorilla self—sans head—into the passenger seat of his car.
I slid him a disgusted look.
“You
