Murder on Consignment (11 page)

My jaw dropped.

He leaned in closer. “I broke it off.”

“What?”

“It’s over.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” No I wasn’t. I sat back in my chair, trying to control the smile that was threatening to break out on my face. I wanted to jump into his arms and kiss him all over.

At least now I could und
erstand Sarah’s little tirade at my apartment. She was a scorned woman, desperate to hang on to her man any way she could. Poor thing.

“Why? What happened?” I asked. I just couldn’t help smirking a little.

“It just wasn’t right between us.” 

I leaned forward, waiting for him to expand on his explanation.
I knew what was coming. He couldn’t stay with Sarah because he was still in love with me; he had finally figured out I was the only woman for him; or, my heart thudded, he’d proposed to the wrong woman and was about to tell me I was the one he wanted to marry. 

Instead, he stood abruptly, his chair screeching against the linoleum floor, and threw his crumpled napkin onto the tray. “I have to go, but I’ll be in touch,” he said.

And that was it. He turned and walked out, leaving me hanging once again.

I was torn. Maybe I should feel happy. After all, Sean had dumped Sarah. Then again, maybe I should feel depressed. He was free to run back to me, but he wasn’t. One way or the other, more chocolate was in order. I made my way back into the cafeteria and picked
up a slice of Boston cream pie and another carton of chocolate milk. By the time I licked the final gob of creamy custard from my fork and took the last drag from the carton, it didn’t matter whether I was elated or depressed; I was simply sick. I glanced around. Luckily the cafeteria was almost completely empty. After another double check, I loosened the drawstring on my sweatpants, making way for my expanding belly, and discretely belched into my napkin. My stomach was rolling. It was time to call it a day.

Chapter 14

I didn’t even bother with jeans the next day; instead, I stepped right back into the previous day’s sweats. A good thing, I thought, after walking into the parish hall and seeing what I’d be sorting through. Before me was more junk than I’d ever seen crammed into a single room. My eyes danced about, taking it all in. I could hardly wait to get started.

I caught sight of Mary Frances across the room. She too was wearing sw
eats and had her hair pulled into a high pony-tail which swung back and forth as she weaved her way through stacks of bags.

“Hey, Sis. A lot of donations, huh?”

She waved me over, smiling. “Isn’t it wonderful? We’ll bring in a ton of money this year. Just think of all the supplies it’ll afford for the shelter.” That was my sister; always thinking of others.

Just as I reached her, we heard a loud thump followed by a high-pitched clanking noise coming from the back entrance. “That would be Mrs.
Connely’s piano,” she explained. “Her son apparently quit lessons years ago and she’s sick of dusting it. What a generous donation, huh?” 

I agreed, but I wasn’t too sure about the two guys who were struggling to fit it through the back door. Cuss words were flying, most of them including a vain usage of God’s name. Even
I, who could swear with the best of them, knew that was completely inappropriate for a church setting.

I was about to say something too, but was interrupted by Morgan Farrell’s grand entrance. “Hi all!” she called out, making her way over. I could smell her
cologne before she reached us. I used to wear that same expensive scent in my previous life, when I could easily afford to smell like a hundred and twenty-eight an ounce. Nowadays, if I wanted to smell extra special, I’d peruse the department store cosmetic counters until some heavily made-up brunette wearing a white lab coat sprayed me down. If I were lucky, she’d swipe a little free eye shadow across my lids too.

I did a quick survey of Morgan’s outfit. Definitely not sweat pants. She was looking quite svelte in her work attire: designer jeans, dark washed and fitted to a tee; brown leather pointy-toed loafers peeking out from under the boot-cut jeans; and a button-down, crisply ironed shirt, rolled up at the sleeves. Her gold jewelry was understated and instead of wearing dangly earrings she sported diamond studs; flashy, but still practical for working. The entire ensemble, while casual, still cost more than I earned in an entire month or two.

“Where should we start?” Morgan asked, sounding quite enthusiastic and looking toward Mary Frances for leadership.

We decided to divide and conquer. Mary Frances and Morgan paired off, working through small household items, sorting and marking as they went along. I helped the foul-mouthed, piano moving men carry in and set up a dozen long white tables.

After that was accomplished, I started sorting through bags marked ‘kid’s clothes.’ My goal was to get all the children’s items separated into sizes and arranged on tables. I practically drooled as I worked. Almost everything I sorted through was brand name. A girl like me could make a fortune selling this stuff on-line.

While sorting through bags was fun, I still had a mission to accomplish. Whenever I could, I tried to engage Morgan in conversation. It wasn’t that easy, though. Surprisingly enough, she was a hard worker and didn’t waste much time chitchatting.

I kept trying. “So, Morgan, how did you say you and J.J. met? I think people’s love stories are so interesting, don’t you, Mary Frances?” I looked at my sister for support.

“Uh, huh,” she mumbled, trying to fit together the pieces of a dozen or so children’s puzzles that had tipped over and become one huge, but colorful, mess.

Morgan popped out from behind a box of blankets. “Oh … it was a crazy thing, really,” she giggled. “Well, a friend of mine belonged to the same country club as his family did. Actually,” she giggled again, “she was dating J.J. at the time. Anyway, J.J. is quite the tennis player, and as it happened, he and my girlfriend were signed up to play doubles in a charity tournament when she suddenly took ill. She asked me to fill in for her and I just couldn’t help myself. It was love at first sight.”

“I bet.” I eyed the cute little smirk
she wore and glanced down at her long manicured nails. Meeeow … what a cat. Well, she’d sunk those claws into a rich one. “And here you are now: happily married and getting ready to buy a new home. I bet you’re anxious to get out of your in-law’s house,” I commented.

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s not so bad living there. Isn’t it a b
eautiful home? I told J.J. that I want ours to be as nice. He’s working so hard at the company, why shouldn’t he have something just as nice? Besides, it’ll be his company soon.”

I tried not to show any reaction to her audacity. Mary Frances must have been attempting to do the same. I’d never seen someone work so diligently on putting together a chunky wooden puzzle. “Really?  Is Mr. Farrell going to retire soon?” I asked.

“Well, he’s not getting any younger, you know.”

I couldn’t decide if she was be
ing flippant, or simply avoiding the answer. “Well, he sure has built a successful business. What a great thing to be able to hand down to his sons.”

“Sons?”

“Oh, I mean son. That’s right. J.J. is an only child, isn’t he?”

“Yes.” She eyed me curiously. Mary Frances was also eyeing me.

I went directly into babble mode. “Well, of course he’s the only son. I don’t know what I was thinking. I mean, how crazy would it be if all of the sudden someone just popped out of nowhere and said they were a long lost son of Mr. Farrell?”

Mary Frances cleared her throat.

I had Morgan’s full attention, but I couldn’t quite read her expression.

“That’s a weird thought, huh?” I asked, trying to elicit a response. 

“Very weird,” Morgan replied. Her voice was even toned. She seemed cool although she was staring hard at me. Of course that could be because I was rambling like an idiot. Nonetheless, if she was fazed by my “dual-heir” innuendo, she was good at hiding it. 

“Well, it’s already past noon, girls,” Mary Frances said. “I think we’ve accomplished a lot for this morning. We should h
ave no trouble getting this set up before the sale on Saturday. Mrs. Kelley’s group is coming in later this afternoon to do some marking. How about we call it a day and meet back here at nine tomorrow?”

Morgan stood and brushed her hands. “Soun
ds good to me. I’m starved. J.J is at the Naperville location today. I thought I’d head over there and try to catch him for lunch. Do you girls want to join us?”

“Um … I’m not—” Mary Frances started.

“Sure. We’d love to!” I chimed in. What luck! J.J. was the one Farrell I hadn’t met. “I mean, I love JimDogs. I’d eat there every day if I could!”

Mary Frances raised her brows. “Actually, you girls go ahead,” she said. “I’ve got to get back to St. Benedict.”

Morgan smiled sweetly. “Well, maybe next time, Sister.” Then turning to me she said, “Do you want to ride with me or follow? It’s just down the road, so it wouldn’t be any trouble for me to bring you back this way.”

“Well, okay then. I’ll ride with you.” Any opportunity I can get to learn more about your murderous family, I thought.

Once we were buckled in and cruising comfortably down the road in Morgan’s luxury sedan, she asked, “I’m glad you’re able to join me for lunch. So, you love JimDogs, huh?”

“I sure do. I eat there all the time. I usually get the Junior J-dog combo meal with root beer. I love the frosty mugs. I also
especially
love the CubbyPup. I take it with extra mustard and onions. Yum, yum. And the bun…” I rolled my eyes in mocked pleasure. “I sure wish I had the recipe for your hotdog rolls.” 

Morgan laughed. “Do you know how many people have tried to get that recipe from me? Not that I even know it. It’s a well-guarded secret, you know.”

I laughed with her. We were just two happy, giggly friends riding along in a fifty-thousand dollar vehicle, going out to eat hot dogs together.

“Not even J.J. knows the recipe,
” she added.

“Really?” I was a bit surprised by that.

“I know. Isn’t it crazy? James has all the buns made here locally, under tight security. Then they’re shipped to the other locations.”

“Wow. He goes to a lot of trouble to keep the recipe guarded.”

She shrugged. “It’s what’s made him millions.”

I nodded in agreement, trying to comprehend all that must go into keeping such a secret. “Does J.J. work at this location every day?
” I asked, as we pulled into the lot.

“Oh, no. He usually works at the corporate office. I’m not really sure why he’s here today. Some sort of boring
work stuff, I’m sure.” She put the car in park and was peering in the rearview mirror touching up her lipstick—some sort of daring shade of red probably called Red Desire, or Wicked Red. With my coloring, I could never get away with such passionate shades. I was forever doomed to more subdued names such as Taupe, Everyday Beige, or Barely Pink.

She snapped the mirror shut and flashed a freshly colored smile my way. “After lunch, J.J. and I are going to meet with our contractor an
d start plans for our new house,” she gushed.

I stole a quick look at my own appearance. My sweatshirt was dusty and stained from working all morning so I slipped it off, deciding to sacrifice warmth for fashion. Luckily
, I’d worn a descent shirt underneath.  

“J.J. is giving me free rein on the house design,” Morgan continued. “I never knew how much went into building a place. It’s so
exciting. Come on, let’s go and grab a seat. I’ll tell you all about my ideas.”

Oh yippee, I thought, following Morgan past the crowd at the front counter and straight to the cashier who was wearing the standard JimDog uniform: white pants, red shirt, and a red and white striped baseball cap.

“Hello, Mrs. Farrell,” he said, giving Morgan a lustful once over that would get him fired if he wasn’t careful.

“Hi there,” she replied i
n a way that made me think she couldn’t remember the guy’s name. It was probably difficult to remember all the little people. “I’m meeting my husband for lunch. Please tell him I’m here and would you bring out my usual, and uh … a CubbyPup with mustard and onions?”

I nodded, impressed
she remembered.

“And a couple of diet sodas,” she added, glancing my way.

“Diet soda’s fine,” I indicated with a smile, although I never really drank diet anything. I would have preferred a regular pop or a frosty mug of root beer.

It must be great
to be Morgan, I thought. We’d just bypassed twenty minutes of waiting in line and our food was going to be brought out to us. I was liking this set-up. Who knew eating weenies could be so fun? Maybe I
could
tolerate listening to house plans for an hour or so.

A
s “what’s-his-name” filled our order we made ourselves comfortable in a booth. A few minutes later, he brought our food. Morgan indicated that we should go ahead and start eating. “J.J. should be out at any moment,” she said.

Apparently, she was wrong. I was half-way through my CubbyPup when Morgan started to become impatient. “I wonder what’s taking J.J. so long?” she whined, her face suddenly turning pouty.

I shrugged and kept eating. We both looked up as ‘what’s-his-name’ approached our booth again. This time, he looked a little forlorn. “Uh … Mrs. Farrell. J.J. sent me to tell you that … well … he’s sorry, but he got called out on some sort of emergency and returned to corporate headquarters.”

“What!” She accentuated her exclamation by slamming her drink down on the table, sending plumes of sugar-free fizz all over my shirt. She whipped out her cell and pushed a single button. Apparently
J.J. was on speed dial. Boy, was he in for it, I thought, as I wiped droplets off my front.

“Hi sweetie. Where are y
ou?” I did a double take. A second ago her voice was low and cursing, now it was high-pitched and sweet. This girl would be a natural for a children’s film voice-over. Or, maybe psycho enough to pull off two homicides.

What’s-his-name started slowly backing away as Morgan continued speaking in her sugary tone. “Of course I understand, but what about our appointment with the contractor? We were
supposed to meet right after lunch.” Her voice was sweet, but her expression was bitter. “That’s fine. I’ll see you at home tonight. Love—”

Uh, oh. He hung up on the love you part. Not good.

I watched as she turned off her phone and placed it back in her purse, her movements calm and controlled. Then in one sudden jerk she stood up, and with the force of a major league pitcher, launched the rest of her diet soda across the restaurant. Patrons scrambled to get out of the way as it exploded against the far wall.

I looked around. What’s-his-name was nowhere to be found. I scanned the front counter and surprisingly enough, no one seemed to even notice Morg
an’s little outburst. If it wasn’t for the guy across the room with the soda-stained shirt flashing a rude hand gesture, I might doubt it had happened at all.