Free Death of a Trophy Wife by Laura Levine

another Mattress King and steal a replacement.
     
    Now don’t get all righteous on me. Once I landed the job—or even if I didn’t—I’d explain to Marvin what happened and reimburse him. But right now I couldn’t afford to make a bad impression.
    So I googled the address of the Santa Monica Mattress King, and minutes later I was heading down Santa Monica Boulevard in my Corolla, trying to figure out a way to pull off my heist. The sample was way too big to slip into my purse. I’d just have to wait until the salespeople were distracted with other customers and try to sneak out with it then.
    Unfortunately, when I got there, the place was deserted. Not a customer in sight. The lone salesman, a dapper black guy whose name tag read Carlton , jumped up from his desk, thrilled to see me.
    “Hi, there,” he said, flashing me a dazzling smile. “How can I help you get a Sleeptacular night’s rest?”
    “Actually, I’m just looking,” I said, spotting the store’s mattress sample, tossed casually atop a bed not three feet away from me.
    So near and yet so far.
    For an instant I considered grabbing it and running. But a quick glance at Carlton’s muscles rippling under his crisp white shirt told me how futile that would be. He’d take me down in no time.
    Playing it casual, I started wandering around, feeling the different mattresses, praying that Carlton would leave me alone.
    But Carlton was on me like glue, extolling the virtues of the various Mattress King models: the Sweet Dreamer, the Heavenly Rest, and—in Carlton’s words—“the Mercedes of mattresses,” the Comfort Cloud.
    “Sleeping on this baby,” Carlton crooned, running a loving hand across its plush surface, “is like sleeping in paradise.”
    Unlike the lugubrious Lenny, Carlton was one heck of a salesman. If I’d actually been in the market for a mattress, he undoubtedly would have hypnotized me into springing for the Comfort Cloud. Along with a matching ergonomic pillow.
    But, as we all know, I was not in the market for a mattress. All I cared about was that dratted sample.
    I casually strolled over and picked it up.
    “Wow, this is fascinating,” I said. “You can see the springs and everything.”
    “More coils to the inch,” Carlton said, still standing over me like a hawk. “That’s what we give you here at Mattress King.”
    He flashed me another dazzler smile.
    By now I could tell I was never going to get rid of this guy.
    There was no way out of it. I’d simply have to try my heist at another branch.
    “Thanks so much for your help,” I sighed. “I’ll think it over.”
    “You leaving? So soon?” His eyes widened in surprise. I got the feeling very few customers, especially those of the female persuasion, were able to resist his charms. “Don’t you want to at least try one out?”
    “Some other time,” I demurred.
    “Take my card,” he said, thrusting his business card into my hand. “Come back and see me if you change your mind.”
    “Will do,” I said with a feeble smile, then scurried out the door.
    Back in my Corolla, I got out my cell phone and was just about to call Information for the address of the nearest Mattress King when I got an idea. One that just might work.
    I fished out Carlton’s business card and punched in his number.
    “Mattress King,” he answered. “Where every customer is king.”
    “Hi,” I said, doing my best to disguise my voice, “I was in your store last week and saw a mattress I really liked. The Comfort Cloud.”
    “Oh, yes, the Mercedes of mattresses.”
    “Anyhow, I’ve decided to buy it, and I’m wondering if I can order it over the phone with my credit card.”
    “Of course you can,” he said, his voice brimming with excitement. “What size did you want?”
    “California King.”
    “Wonderful!” he gushed. I could practically hear him calculating his commission. “Have you got your credit card number?”
    “Yes, here it is. It’s a MasterCard 5466—oh,