Shopping is never over . . . It is merely suspended.
—Robert B. Parker, The Widening Gyre
New York City
November 1947
ONE MOMENT I was flat on my back with a pillow across my face. A second later someone jostled me, my eyes snapped open, and my other four senses sprang to life.
The chatter, the traffic noise, and the pervasive smell of unleaded gasoline told me I was back in Jack Shepard’s New York—only this time we were in a lot nicer neighborhood than the ones where Jack usually dragged me.
This was Fifth Avenue, the Mecca of American shopping. The broad sidewalks weren’t quite broad enough to contain the phalanx of prattling women—and a few glum-looking men—who crowded me right into the corner of a granite building.
Most of these people were shoppers, bearing neatly wrapped boxes or bags emblazoned with legendary names like Saks Fifth Avenue, Lord & Taylor, and Tiffany & Co.
“Shake a leg, Penny,” I heard Jack call. “We have a date with a fashion plate.”
As directed, I shook my leg, fully expecting to teeter on the peaks of twin high heels. Instead, I found myself on solid ground—in rather ugly brown flats—with bobby socks?
“Okay,” I muttered.
As I stepped into the midday crowd I spied my reflection in a plate-glass window. My bulky wool coat and calf-length dress were the same horrid muddy-brown color as my ugly shoes. My hair was pulled back into an unflattering granny bun, and oversized horn-rimmed glasses hung over my nose.
“Penny, over here.”
Jack Shepard waited in front of a pair of tall glass doors guarded by a uniformed doorman. The polished brass sign on the wall told me all I needed to know.
“This is a high-fashion house, Jack.”
“Yeah?”
“So why did you dress me like a frump?”
“You’re always complaining about your heels being too high, or your garters too tight. Isn’t this better?”
“But you’re taking me to a high-fashion house!”
Jack’s mischievous smile creased the jagged scar on his chin. “Savor the irony, doll, and play off everything I say and do.”
The doorman greeted Jack with a tip of his hat.
Why not? He was wrapped in his best suit—the same one he wore last night, though he’d donned a new starched white shirt. He stood taller. Even his fedora seemed to sit more squarely on his head.
The detective had dressed himself to fit in perfectly on tony Fifth Avenue. Me? Not so much—which was more than apparent from the disapproving looks I was getting from the fashionable women striding by.
Once we were inside the spacious store, Jack cornered one of the glamourous saleswomen. As usual, he had no problem attracting female attention.
“What can I help you with?” the slinky blonde purred, wrapping herself around the detective.
“I need to see Rene Bijoux, pronto.”
The woman frowned. “Mr. Bijoux is very busy at—”
Jack cut in. “I’m from the Broadway Guild.”
The woman’s dark red lips formed a perfect O. “I see. I’ll find him at once.”
When the slinky saleswoman was out of earshot, I faced Jack.
“What is going on here?”
“Relax, Penny, you’re going to do a little bit of modeling, that’s all.”
“I’m what?”
Jack silenced me as a tall, thin man in an elegant suit and dark, slicked-back hair approached us. He was roughly Jack’s age, but his fair skin appeared as smooth and shiny as the building’s polished brass sign. He looked down a nose shaped like a predatory eagle’s—which contrasted oddly with his large, fawnlike eyes.
He blinked those eyes at Jack, in much the same way the saleswoman had.
“I’m Rene Bijoux. What may I help you with, Mr. . . . ?”
“Van Heusen,” Jack said, flashing a fake ID. “I’m with—”
“Yes,” the tall man interrupted with a frown. “The Broadway Guild.”
“That’s right,” Jack replied. “Johnny Palermo sent us. He doesn’t think you have enough dames to model in today’s fashion show. Johnny thinks you could use another.”
A flash of anger crossed Bijoux’s face. He quickly tamped it down.
“I suppose you can never have enough attractive models,” he said, forcing the words through gritted teeth. “Where is she?’
Jack nudged me forward. “Right here.”
Rene Bijoux recoiled like Dracula facing a crucifix. “Gad, sir! Surely you jest?”
“What’s wrong with her?” Jack demanded, acting all innocent.
Rene Bijoux stepped backward and lifted one manicured hand to his shiny chin.
“Excuse me for asking, young lady,” he said, addressing me for the first time. “You do know the war is over? That the Air Corps no longer requires the copious use of silk for parachutes?”
“Uh-huh,” I replied.
“And you know we no longer ration other types of materials, correct?”
I shrugged. “I guess so.”
“Which means you need no longer dress like a schoolmarm!” He cleared his throat. “And speaking of dresses. Times have changed, Miss—”
“Penny,” Jack threw in. I gave him a sidelong glance. He seemed to be enjoying the show immensely.
“Miss Penny,” Rene Bijoux said with wrinkled nose. “As I said, times have changed. Johnny’s come marching home. That means Rosie has riveted her last rivet, and sensibly made a beeline for hearth and home.”
“And that’s good?”
“It’s where her heart always was.” Rene threw his arms wide. “You’re free to be a woman again. Free to explore your femininity. Free to find your own Johnny and settle down in your own little home.”
“And just how do I do that?” This time it was me forcing words through gritted teeth.
“Well, first you must look . . . acceptable. The simple, utilitarian style of clothing you are wearing, inspired by the likes of Norman Norell and Claire McCardell . . . Well, to put it kindly, it’s passé. Bulky wool is strictly for men in Arctic climates. And denim?” he scoffed. “Mark my words. No one will be caught dead wearing denim, ever again.”
He shook his pomaded head. “No, my sweet little Miss Penny. Glamour is the key to the modern look. Rounded shoulders, full skirts, lush materials.”
Rene Bijoux stepped back to appraise me once again. “Yes, on reflection I believe she will do,” he said to Jack. “I’ll have one of my best stylists get to work on her face, and a hairdresser to untangle that rattrap on her head. And we’ll have to decide on the right dress. This is going to take a lot of attention . . . My attention.”
“Great,” Jack said.
“It was nice meeting you, Mr. Van Heusen—”
“Not so fast, Rene. I go with the girl.”
“I don’t approve of husbands or boyfriends in the dressing rooms.”
“You’re off the hook, then, Rene, because I’m neither.” Jack smiled, baring white teeth. “I’m her chaperone, see?”
Rene Bijoux sighed. “Follow me, then.”
The fashion designer spun like a ballet dancer and marched through the crowd of well-heeled women, who instinctively parted to let him pass.
“Why are we here, Jack?” I whispered.
“Relax, doll. Rene took up the challenge.”
“Challenge?”
“Yep, and you were the bait. It’s all going according to plan. Why, you’re the perfect distraction.”
“What’s going according to plan?”
“I told you, Penny. We’ve got a date with a fashion plate.”
“By fashion plate, you mean—?”
“Thelma Dice, the dame who has the Tears of Valentino.”
“She’s here?”
Jack nodded. “Johnny Palermo tells me she’s one of the dames playing clotheshorse today.”
“How can I help?”
“Baby, you’re doing a helluva job already.”