Elaine Viets & Victoria Laurie, Nancy Martin, Denise Swanson - Drop-Dead Blonde (v5.0) (pdf) by Unknown (howl and other poems .TXT) 📕

couture to settle the national debt. In her other hand she held one of the jumbo water bottles she was never seen without, and from one finger dangled a ring of keys--no doubt her access to all the in- ventory storerooms in Haymaker's. She wore a pair of trim, black Italian jeans and a loose black Dolce & Gabbana cotton shirt printed with vintage travel posters. On her feet she proudly wore running shoes--proof that she never stopped hustling.

``Hello, Popo. I was just on my way to see you.''

``Oh?'' Popo's small eyes narrowed on me through the white-blond spikes of her signature punk hairdo. Her un- spoken question was, ``Can you afford Popo now?''

Before my family nest egg got scrambled, I had been one of the first clients to use Popo's services as a personal shop- per. For me, Popo had been a big time saver. Oh, I'll admit I could pull out my credit card just as fast as any shopaholic in town, but I had more interesting things to do than poke through hangers at the YSL sale rack. It had been easy to phone Popo and pick up a few pretty things before jetting off to London for a weekend of museums. I'd recom- mended her to many friends.

But when my parents took the money and ran, and my husband quit doing cocaine long enough to be murdered by his drug dealer, I'd discontinued my relationship with Popo. I couldn't afford her anymore. Nothing like a dose of the real world to set a girl straight.

Popo's hostile expression reminded me that she not only resented my departure as a client, but also that I'd known SLAY BELLES 11 her when she first got started and needed my help--before she started referring to herself in the third person.

She certainly didn't need anyone's help anymore. I'd re- cently heard that Popo's work with wealthy clients raked in tens of millions of dollars for the department store every year--far exceeding any other Haymaker's employee. To better facilitate her sales, she had been given her own bou- tique, a private salon tucked in a corner of the store where she plied her clients with light salads, chilled bottles of Cris- tal, and plenty of personalized salesmanship.

Popo's expert gaze swept over my ensemble--my faithful Calvin Klein skirt and a well-cut jacket that had seen me through many examinations by fashion Nazis. Although I told myself I didn't care what anyone thought of my clothes, I suddenly hoped I didn't look threadbare.

Unwillingly, Popo said, ``You don't look bad, Nora. Is that jacket Carolina Herrera?''

``Yes, as a matter of fact. You have an amazing eye, Popo.''

``Popo is the best,'' she corrected. She flicked through the hangers in her hand and pulled out a long wisp of beaded chiffon. ``You should buy this Alberta Ferretti dress. Just the thing for a Christmas party. Good with your coloring. Only twenty-four hundred.''

``Thanks.'' I swallowed hard and tried not to calculate how many rolls of generic toilet paper I could buy with twenty-four hundred dollars. ``It's . . . gorgeous.''

Popo dangled the dress in front of me like juicy bait at the end of a sharp hook. The garment probably weighed as much as a handkerchief and looked as if it might cling to my curves like melted butter. Popo smirked. ``You could make your boyfriend crazy with this dress.''

``Uhm . . .''

``Maybe he'd buy it for you. I hear he's a rich bad boy. C'mon. Only takes a minute to try it on.''

I gave myself a mental slap. What was I thinking? Even a Kathie Lee Casual from Wal-Mart was beyond my bud- get. ``I can't,'' I said firmly. ``I'm here to pick up a package for Lexie Paine.''

Popo immediately snatched the dress back, and gave up trying to tempt me. ``Lexie's box is inside.'' She jerked her head toward the glass door of her salon. ``Check with Dar- 12 Nancy Martin win. He'll find it for you. Just duck before you ask for the package.''

``Duck?''

``Yeah. Darwin's not your biggest fan. He might throw something at you.''

I couldn't imagine why Popo's assistant could possibly care about me. ``Why should Darwin want to hit me?''

Her grin was more of a death-mask grimace than a smile. ``He heard about your recommendation.''

``My--''

``You told Alan Rutledge not to promote Darwin.''

``I never--''

I stopped myself. At the intermission of a benefit perfor- mance of a Broadway show months ago, Alan and I had spoken briefly on the subject of Darwin Osdack, Popo's assistant. With a flush, I remembered Alan asking if I thought Darwin was ready to become a personal shopper and start taking clients of his own. My response had been guarded--definitely lacking in enthusiasm. I suddenly real- ized now that Alan had taken my lukewarm answer as a negative comment on Darwin's abilities.

``You were right, of course.'' Popo slugged some water from her enormous plastic bottle. ``That goes without say- ing. Darwin's not ready. But he decided it was you who tipped off Alan about the shrinkage problem.''

``Shrinkage problem?''

``You know--employees walking off with merchandise. Darwin thought he was getting away with it, but you must have sharper eyes than Popo does. Nobody suspected Dar- win was the thief.''

``But I didn't know anything,'' I said. ``If Alan inferred that I believed Darwin was doing anything wrong--''

``Store security couldn't prove anything,'' Popo assured me. ``If they had, Darwin would have been history right away. But he's definitely on probation, and he didn't get the promotion.''

``Because of me.''

Again, Popo gave one of her ghastly smiles. ``Yep. So duck when you pick up the package.''

``Thanks for the warning,'' I said. ``And for the package. I'm sure Lexie will appreciate the work you've--''

``Popo, darling!'' A trilling voice interrupted us. SLAY BELLES 13

From around a rack of Gucci belts came a tall, skinny