“Way to damn yourself with faint praise. This is like pulling teeth.”
Before Briony could remind her she was a dental hygienist so she knew a thing or two about tooth extraction, Ramsey said, “All right. I have the kind of looks that attract attention. Does that satisfy you?”
“Quasimodo had the kind of looks that attract attention. You come from the same general gene pool that spawned the likes of Katy Perry, Julia Roberts, and Anne Hathaway.”
Ramsey flushed Tripping the Light Flamingo and groaned softly.
“It’s true. Look at you, all folded up there like your legs aren’t twice the length of mine. You have fab hair, too, and you don’t even color it.” Briony paused a beat. “Do you?”
“No.”
“Damn. Then there’s that Audrey Hepburn neck, which frankly makes me want to hate you, except that your mouth has a sly way of curling at one corner which makes me like you enough to forgive you the swan neck.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. Will you stop?”
“Almost done. I don’t believe for a moment that you’re oblivious to your looks, only that you’re indifferent to them. Do you ever think about why that is?”
She did. Of course, she did. It was not a subject open for discussion, even with a friend as good as Briony had become.
“Our court time must be up,” Ramsey said. “Can we move to the steam room?” With luck there would be at least one or two women already in there. Briony might not use her filter with friends, but she could be depended upon to be discreet in front of others.
Three days later Ramsey stood at the customer service desk casually chatting with Sharon Wade while waiting for the man in camo fatigues to exit the store. This wannabe shopper was different from the last thief she stopped with camping gear. There was only a small possibility that this shoplifter intended to enjoy the outdoors. No, here was another twitchy meth head with stringy, dirty hair, sores on his face, bad teeth, no meat on his bones, and a vacant stare. She’d observed him pretending to look over the camp stoves. He chose two, which was one too many, and then he proceeded to load up seven camper propane tanks, lighter fluid, bleach, fifteen battery cards, two cast iron hobo pie makers, a pair of overalls, a package of socks, and three sleeping bags.
She told Sharon to get ready to make a call and stepped away from the counter as she watched Mr. Camo push his cart through a checkout aisle with no cashier. She sipped from her bottled water, eyes following him as he walked past. He held up a receipt when his path crossed the greeter. Fred Collins, seventy-two on his last birthday, smiled, nodded, and waved him on. Ramsey set her water bottle on the counter and gave Fred a thumbs up. The first set of doors parted for Mr. Camo and his cart. Before the second pair of doors opened to the sidewalk and parking lot, Ramsey caught up with Mr. Camo in the vestibule.
“Sir?” she asked politely, standing better than an arm’s length away. “Would you mind showing me that receipt I saw you hold up for Fred? It’s store policy when you don’t have any Ridge bags in your cart. Fred should have asked to see it, but you know, he’s practically a fossil and he forgets.” She stood still as the meth head made a slow examination of her person. His dark glassy eyes were not quite as vacant as they’d been earlier, but she still had an urge to wave a hand in front of his face to see if he could blink. “Sir? The receipt?” She nodded toward the slip of paper in his left hand. It was not unexpected when he suddenly crumpled the receipt and threw it at her. Ramsey didn’t flinch. She used one hand to neatly snag it out of the air and the other to grip the wire basket end of the cart.
Mr. Camo gave the cart a surprisingly strong shove in the direction of the outside doors, but Ramsey’s hold kept it from going straight. When the cart veered right, Mr. Camo had sense enough not to fight its momentum. He released the bright yellow handle and charged the doors, unleashing the powerful pent up energy of a sprinter leaving the blocks. Or at least that’s what Ramsey supposed he imagined he was doing. His exit was less dramatic than that. He hurried as best he was able, but without the cart for support, Ramsey noticed he was favoring his left leg. The hobble slowed him down. So did the trio of seniors who had just been dropped off by the Clifton transit van and were entering the store through the doors meant to leave it.
To his credit, Mr. Camo tried to dodge the women, but he ended up doing that peculiar confrontational dance that people do when they meet head on. He went right; they went right. He feinted left; they sidestepped left. Then everyone stopped to evaluate. He finally charged between two of them only to get tripped up by a three-footed cane. He went face down on the sidewalk just as the transit van pulled away and a Clifton police vehicle rolled up to take its place.
Ramsey couldn’t leave the cart unattended, so she dragged it behind her while she checked on the women. They were all of a piece, not quite sure what had just happened, but showed conscientious concern for “that poor man” sprawled on the sidewalk. Ramsey assured them he would be fine and invited them to have complimentary coffees in the Starbuck’s before they left. She waved to Fred who had watched the slapstick from his post and pantomimed what she wanted. Smiling widely in Southridge greeter style, Fred ushered the women inside and assured them arrangements would be made for their coffees and pastries.
With the women in Fred Collins’s gallant care, Ramsey hunkered close enough to Mr. Camo to visually check him for injuries, but not so close that he could make a grab for her.
“The bitch tripped me,” he said, turning his head in Ramsey’s direction. His chin scraped the sidewalk and he winced. “I’m gonna sue. I’m gonna sue you, the store, and that old bitch with the cane.”
“Well, you’re probably going to want to speak to your jailhouse lawyer about that.”
“You called the police?”
A shadow crossed Ramsey’s face as a familiar voice said, “Right here.”
She lifted her head. “You.”
Sullivan Day’s broad shoulders rose and fell in a helpless shrug. “Why do I always get the sense that you’re accusing me of something?”
“I don’t know. A guilty conscience?”
Sullivan pretended to give that some thought. “Nope. Don’t think that’s it.”
“Hey!” the meth head said. “Man, down here. Someone gonna help me up? I gotta get home. Just help me over to my car.”
Ramsey and Sullivan exchanged do-you-believe-this-guy glances.
“That’s his cart there?” asked Sullivan.
Ramsey nodded. “I watched him put everything in the basket and I haven’t let it out of my sight.”
