Free Murder on Consignment by Susan Furlong Bolliger Page B

That’s my money … that guy Charlie practically stole it from me.” I paused, trying to think of anything I may have left out. “Ok, then. Bye, and um … well, sorry about slapping you.”
    I felt regret the instant I disconnected. What was wro ng with me? Not only had I apologized for a perfectly legitimate and well deserved face slap, I pretty much sounded like a babbling idiot.
    I shrugged it off. The i mportant thing was that I turned over the information to Sean. With that done, I decided to let it go and get back to my own work.
    *
    In warmer weather, I usually spent Thursday afternoons hitting early garage sales, but since October wasn’t a big month for sales, I thought I’d run by a couple of my favorite consignment shops instead. I actually scored big at the Thrifty Kids shop. The owner was anxious to unload a bunch of unsold summer clothes which I practically stole for five bucks a bag. Nice stuff, too. Mostly brand names. Luckily for me, she took a check, since ol’ Chuck had taken my last bit of cash.
    A lthough I definitely needed exercise, carrying my latest acquisitions up all twenty-two steps leading to my above-garage apartment was exhausting. My glutes were starting to burn as I headed out for trip number four and found my mother on the top step. She was holding the two remaining bags. “Looks like you’ve been busy. I’m glad. I always say work is the best therapy.”
    I knew she was referring to my troubles with Sean, but I didn’ t really want to go into it again. “Look, Mom, thanks for helping, but I’ve got a lot to do.”
    She patted my shoulder and smiled. “Sure, dear. I just came to see if you wanted to eat dinner with us. Your dad’s been cooking all day.”
    “Really? Sounds good,” I backtracked without hesitation, my rumbling stomach prompting me to trudge down the steps behind her. My mood softened as I ducked around the hedge, and crossed the backyard toward the warm glow of kitchen lights cast against the increasingly darkening evening. My nose began twitching as soon as I opened the back door—Mulligan stew, my dad’s specialty. Paired with hard rolls and cold Guinness, it was the ultimate comfort food.
    “There you are,” my father said, pulling a sheet of oatmeal cookies from the oven. “Your mother asked me to make something special for dinner. She said she needed an incentive to get you over here to try on the dress for your cousin’s wedding.” 
    I shot my mother a look. I should have known she had an ulterior motive for inviting me to dinner.
    I was just about to pop a piece of hot cookie into my mouth when she grabbed me. “Dress first, then food. Come with me.”
    I followed her into the family room. She pointed to the dress which was draped over the sofa. The television was tuned into the six o’clock news and the weather girl was promising low er temperatures and a possibility of rain for the next couple of days.
    Mom sighed. “I certainly hope Cherry has good weather for the wedding. It’s risky planning an outdoor event this time of year. Are you excited for the wedding, dear? All your sisters are going to be there, you know.”
    “I can hardly wait,” I said with a sigh, attempting to squirm out of my jeans. “I wouldn’t worry about the weather. The only thing that’s going to ruin this wedding is me in this dress.” 
    Mom was stooped down, holding the dress open. I rested one hand on her shoulder as I stepped into it. Amazingly, she pulled it over my hips with no problem.
    “That Doris is a miracle worker,” she said, zipping and buttoning my back side. “You can’t even tell this was altered.”
    I looked down at my front side, which from my angle, resembled one of the off-color relief maps I would have colored in grade school. I always preferred using my orange crayon for the foothills and mountains. Much brighter and more imaginative than the boring old brown my classmates always chose.
    “Run up and take a look in my bathroom