It's All About Eve. Tracy Kelleher

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      “Not really,” Carter said.

      “Don’t play dumb. It’s out of character.” She patted Carter on the cheek. “In any case, I’ll see you later this evening.” She waved goodbye and marched briskly out the door. It wasn’t often that such a purposeful stride caused parallel pinstripes to curve in so captivating a fashion.

      Eve watched, impressed. “Some woman.”

      “That’s for sure, though sometimes she scares me silly,” Carter said.

      Eve turned. “And you don’t like that?”

      He rubbed the underside of his jaw. “Let’s put it this way—it’s kind of like eating Brussels sprouts. I know it’s good for me, but it still doesn’t make it any easier.”

      Which could make for a somewhat tortuous relationship.

      “Why don’t we get back to the case? I take it you’re an independent?” he asked.

      “What? Oh, yes, I’m not a franchise or anything. I’m independent—totally.”

      Carter suppressed a smile. “So, tell me, is your success ruffling any feathers? Have you received any complaints?”

      “So far all the neighborhood shopkeepers have been very friendly. It’s a very cooperative community—one of the things that attracted me to Grantham in the first place.” She stopped. “Actually, now that you bring it up, there was one incident. An older woman came in last week—with her young grandson. She was upset when the boy asked what the bustier in the window was for.”

      Carter didn’t bother to suppress his smile this time. “Seems like a reasonable question.”

      “And, I think, an indication that the kid has a real aptitude for spatial relations. His grandmother didn’t think so though. She said my display was indecent, or words to that effect.”

      “Words to that effect?”

      “She said, and I quote, ‘It defiles the moral sensibilities of the community.”’

      “All that from one bustier, huh? And what did you reply?”

      “I said that her grandson was probably just your normal, curious boy, and given that he looked about eight years old, I thought he was probably far more interested in baseball cards than bustiers. She didn’t look like she agreed, but she didn’t say anything more.”

      “Did you get her name?” Carter pulled a small notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket. When Eve shook her head, he changed tack and looked around the store. “Is there any other entrance to the store besides the front door?”

      “There’s a back door at the end of the dressing rooms that has access to the rear parking lot, but it’s always locked except for deliveries. And there’s the door to the stairway for the apartment upstairs, but again that’s always locked.” Carter lifted his notebook. “I’m the tenant,” she said before he could ask. “I rent from Bernard Polk.” Polk was old-moneyed Grantham. His mother had maintained the family’s social standing by being a devout member of the Daughters of the American Revolution, while he’d done his darnedest to uphold the family stature by playing polo and going through a series of Palm Beach debutantes. The older he got, the younger and more vapid they seemed to get as well—the debs, not the ponies. It was probably just as well that he was hard of hearing but too vain to wear a hearing aid.

      Carter jotted down the information. “And you live alone?” He looked up. “Just trying to find out how many people regularly come in and out.”

      “No roommate, no pets—no dog, no cat. I live alone.”

      “And you like that?” He didn’t bother to pretend to write.

      They had strayed from the purely professional again, but Eve didn’t feel troubled. Instead, she closed her eyes and sighed, thinking of his question. “It’s blissful living alone.” For the first time in her life, she didn’t have to look to see if the toilet seat was up or down. She wondered if Simone had to remind him about the toilet seat. Having met Simone, Eve knew she’d only have to ask once.

      She opened her eyes and noticed the detective’s puzzled expression. “And your assistant, Melodie is it?” he asked. The pen was at the ready again.

      “Melodie Benjamin. She’s my only employee, and she works part-time, fitting her hours around classes. And, yes, she came with excellent references, which I checked out before hiring her.”

      “As I would have anticipated.”

      His comment pleased her. Maybe a little too much.

      “What about your customers?”

      “Customers?”

      “Who are they? Mostly women?”

      “Mostly. Though we occasionally get men coming in—some cross-dressers.” Carter didn’t blink. “But in general, if men come in, they’re here to buy gifts for wives or girlfriends.” She hesitated. “Perhaps there’s something you’d like to purchase? Women cannot live by camisoles alone, you know.”

      “They can’t? I learn something new everyday.” He flipped his notebook shut, opened up his jacket and slipped it back in the inside pocket, his particularly taut waist allowing for an uninterrupted motion. “I should also probably talk to Ms. Benjamin, if that’s all right with you?”

      Eve shouldn’t have felt a letdown, but she did. She dropped her arms to her sides. “Of course, I’ll just take care of those two customers she’s with. That way you can talk to Melodie and check out the back door and staircase at the same time—not that I’m suggesting how you should do your job.”

      “I could talk to her after you show me the exits, if you prefer?”

      She did, but that sounded petty. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she protested. “Melodie is perfectly capable of showing you the store’s layout, really.”

      “But can she expand my horizons about underwear like you?” His grin was tempting.

      She ignored it and walked over to Melodie, nodding back in the direction of Carter. Melodie flexed her shoulders and stood up straighter. All smiles, Eve faced Carter. “Melodie can help you now.”

      Eve shifted her attention—well, her partial attention—to the two young women. With graduation scheduled for the coming week, they were looking for a present for their roommate. “What about this pair of boxers with the lips? Too obvious?” she asked. Out of her peripheral vision, she saw Melodie leaning more closely than was strictly necessary. Her hips, in her black stretch pants, were slung so far forward Detective Moran could have done a pelvic exam.

      She focused even harder on her customers. “Maybe your roommate is more the playful type? Yes, I know just the thing. Look, these elephants sniffing petunias are great. And they’re the same red as the university’s colors. Or how about the tropical fruits? Very Carmen Miranda.” It was only a matter of time.

      A few minutes to be exact. As she finished gift-wrapping the sale—the elephants won out—Melodie joined her behind the counter.

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