Raven Sisters (Franza Oberwieser Book 2) (3 page)

4

Twenty pounds!
Franza groaned.
Twenty damned pounds! Twenty stupid pounds!

They simply didn’t fit. If only the weight would vanish. Just like that, without fuss, like the snow in spring. Why couldn’t it be like that for her?

Franza sighed and then smiled. She was stuck in a ridiculously cramped dressing room. That in itself was bearable when absolutely necessary. But what was so much worse was that she was stuffed into the jeans. And that
. . .
that was unbearable. Or difficult, at least. She could just manage by holding her breath and pulling her stomach in.

Or like raspberry ice cream in the sun,
she thought, daydreaming a little
. You lie down in a sunbeam, and soon you begin to melt. After twenty pounds have gone, you’re done and you stand up, take a deep breath, shake yourself off, and make sure everything’s still in the right place. Double-check your bust, your stomach, your backside are right where they should be. And then you go into that boutique and the sales assistant doesn’t give you a pitying smile because you’ve arrived twenty pounds too soon. She smiles sincerely and warmly because she knows that the jeans, those stupid jeans, will cling to you like a second skin and that they’ll be just perfect for the right shirt, the right blouse, or perhaps even the right jacket—that crazily expensive jacket that’s hanging out front in the display window. She’ll know she’s going to make an amazing sale.

Franza grinned and slowly released her belly muscles, relaxing. She was amazed to find that somehow it was working.

“Do they fit?”

The shrill, squeaky voice rang into the cubicle, and Franza noted its shrillness with satisfaction.
At least that’s fair,
she thought.
At least this B
arbie girl has a squeaky voice.

“I’m still not sure,” she said, pushing the cubicle curtain aside and taking a few steps out. Away from the mirror, the world already looked a bit different, a bit better.
Ah, well,
she thought,
it’s not so bad, they’re only one size too small. Two weeks’ starvation and they’ll fit as if made for me. And a few gym sessions.

She closed her eyes with a sigh.

Well, sex, perhaps. Hot, wild sex. She preferred that to the gym. Much preferred it. After all, life was there to be enjoyed, in all its facets. She thought of Port, such a good lay. She wanted him even then. She longed for him to be there, tearing those damned jeans from her flesh. Then she thought of how he was at an audition right then and in the evening had a monster production. He wouldn’t be available until late that night, and then he’d be tired, incredibly tired
. . .
perhaps the gym was the better option after all.

With a sigh she thought of the fresh-baked cookies in a tin in her bag. She knew their scent would leap out as soon as she removed the lid.
Felix and Arthur will be happy,
she thought as she twirled back and forth in front of the mirror.

“Excuse me. That jacket in the window, that light-brown leather jacket—I’d like to try that on.”

The sales assistant coughed politely.

“I’m very sorry,” she said, “but I’m afraid we don’t have it in your size.”

Franza turned and looked her in the eye with her best Detective Inspector expression. Even as she did so, she feared it would make no difference.

“You’re afraid you don’t?” she said. “Would you mind taking a look?”

“Yes, if you like,” said the assistant with an almost imperceptible sigh. “I’ll gladly take a look.”

She went on a search for the right size.

Stupid cow,
Franza thought
. There are plenty of women like me!
Her size wasn’t really all that excessive.

“You’re losing it, Franza,” she muttered. “What are you doing in a boutique like this?”

She had not had any particular plans—just a little shopping expedition to buy some of that delicious pasta they stocked at the delicatessen on the corner. Nothing was happening at the station. She had to make the most of it. It didn’t happen very often, and she was accruing overtime like the dust bunnies in her living room.

Yes, she had time, so much lovely time, so she’d wandered through the mall from store to store, up the escalator, past the windows until that jacket had suddenly appeared before her—the leather jacket she’d just discovered they didn’t have in her size. The light-brown marvel had smiled at her, calling her in through the door, and that was why she had squeezed herself into the jeans, as she had no intention of trying on the jacket in her old baggy pants.

Enough already. She went back into the cubicle, sat down on the stool, carefully unzipped the jeans—her stomach enjoying its newly regained freedom—and waited for the assistant to return. Perhaps she had found something after all. But Madam was taking her time.

Fair enough,
Franza thought. She took the opportunity to peep out and look around unseen. There were few people in the store, which was hardly surprising given the prices. The store sold jewelry, perfume, and shoes, as well as clothes. Everything was arranged in tastefully minimalist quantities in prominent positions. Boredom gradually set in, and Franza wondered what the assistant was doing—polishing her nails, picking her nose, catching up with a thousand friends on Facebook?

Suddenly, the door opened, and a young woman entered and looked around.
Wow,
Franza thought. Stylish. Sweet girl. Purple velvet coat, over-the-knee boots, hair neatly pinned, an intelligent, direct gaze.

I know her from somewhere,
Franza thought.
Where do I know her from?
She ran through criminal records in her mind’s eye and then reprimanded herself with a shake of her head and a faint smile. Idiot. What would a young woman like this be doing among that set of hardened criminals?

Although
. . .
Franza continued to watch her in amazement, becoming more uneasy as the seconds went by. The young woman suddenly seemed to be full of desire; the velvet of her coat almost glowed with anticipation. She was practically sniffing the air, carefully turning her head from side to side to sense any lurking danger. Franza quickly ducked out of her line of sight.

It was the small, delicate, sparkling bottles of perfume that had caught the girl’s eye. Franza saw her hand hover above the bottles for a drawn-out moment before her fingers closed in. A final quick glance around the store seemed to give the girl confidence, and the bottle vanished into the depths of her purse.

Franza sat on the stool, a little shocked, a little amused, a little amazed. She had caught a little shoplifter—a little kleptomaniac, in fact. The way she’d behaved indicated both a compulsion and that it was a repeated act.
Yes,
Franza thought,
repetition, compulsion.

Franza heard the sound of the door. The girl had gone just as she came, silently, unobtrusively. The assistant, on the other hand, was still nowhere to be seen. It was as if she knew the police were on the premises.

OK,
Franza thought, and jumped up.
Let’s get to it. Let’s do our duty.
She felt her instincts awaken, wild and predatory. She rushed out after the girl, through the door and out into the mall. As she ran, she heard the assistant yelling after her, “Hey, what are you doing?”
Franza was wearing an expensive pair of designer jeans, and the assistant couldn’t help the fact they didn’t have the jacket in her size. If she didn’t come back immediately, she’d call the police.

As if the little thief had also heard the shrill voice, she turned and saw Franza approaching. Recognizing the danger, predator against predator, she broke into a sprint toward the escalator, toward the exit, toward safety. Despite the high-heeled boots, the girl was fast, incredibly fast. Franza suddenly realized that she was not wearing boots, not even shoes, nothing. She had nothing on her feet except a pair of thin cotton socks, her shoes still lying next to her purse on the floor of the dressing room. For a brief moment Franza felt embarrassed and hesitated. As though her embarrassment had transferred to the young woman, she, too, faltered and turned around. She glanced at Franza’s stockinged feet and slowed. The escalator came into view, and they hurled themselves onto it. Franza felt the ribbed step digging into the soles of her feet and realized how ridiculous she must look, chasing after a girl in her stockinged feet, the fly of her jeans open.

What an idiot,
she thought and stopped and bent over, her hands on her knees.
Why do I get involved in things that don’t concern me? A young madwoman lifts perfume from a stupid, totally overpriced store. Can’t I just let it go?

She took a deep breath, raised her eyes, and looked ahead. The young woman was standing twenty yards away at the entrance to the shopping mall, looking at her. Franza shook her head and gasped for breath.
Is she crazy?
she thought as she began to run again.
Is she crazy? Surely she isn’t waiting for me!

Yes, she was waiting. She passed through the revolving doors, then stopped to watch Franza.

“You’re not in bad form,” she said with a small grin, “for your age.”

“Oh,” Franza said as she tried to steady her breathing. “You think so?”

The young woman nodded.

“After all, we’ve just run through half the mall and you’ve got nothing but socks on your feet.” She grinned again and looked scornfully down at Franza’s feet. “Why?”

Franza raised her eyebrows, still a little annoyed at the lack of respect and the ridicule from her adversary, although inwardly she had regained her composure.

“Why what? Why am I running after you, or why am I running after you in socks?”

“Both.”

“Hm.” Franza considered for a moment. “You know why I ran after you. Why in socks? Well, sometimes life’s just like that.”

The girl smiled, and Franza felt a vague feeling of sympathy, of concern.

“Good answer.”

“You think?” said Franza. “Thanks.”

“Can I go now?”

Franza paused for a fraction of a second, then nodded, looking into the girl’s thoughtful, alert eyes. “Who’s going to stop you? I’m certainly not. I should go back and fetch my shoes.”

“From the shop?”

“Yes, from the shop. A crap shop it is, too.”

The girl laughed. “I know. Why do you go there? You don’t need to.”

Don’t need to! Franza couldn’t help grinning, but her face immediately turned serious again.

“What about you?” she asked. “Do you need to? How often do you need to do that?”

The girl’s face suddenly turned bright red, and all at once she seemed really small, a sapling unable to withstand the wind. She shrugged. “It’s nothing to do with you! Or do you want to send me to a therapist?”

Her scornful smile was back in place, but it was shaky. Franza felt a desire to take her in her arms and rock her gently. But of course she didn’t.

“No,” she said instead. “I’ve no intention of sending you to a therapist. That’s something you’ve got to do for yourself.”

The girl was silent.

“But that
. . .
that’s going to take a while, isn’t it?” she continued carefully.

The girl shrugged again. Franza reached out her hand.

“Franza,” she said. “And you?”

The girl cautiously shook her hand.

“I know,” she said. “You’re Benny’s mother. You’re a police officer. That always amazed me.”

“Oh!” Franza was surprised. “You know Ben? How?”

“From school. We were in the same class. I have to go now.”

She withdrew her hand from Franza’s and walked away.

“What’s your name?” Franza called.

The girl turned once more. “Lilli,” she said. “I’m Lilli.”

Then she was gone, swallowed up by the crowds. Franza stood there for a while, lost in thought.

“Lilli,” she murmured and recalled her eyes, light mottled brown.

She turned back into the mall, rode up the escalator, fielding with confidence the looks she attracted in her socks and unzipped fly, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

The sales assistant was standing outside the door of the store, an aging Barbie gesticulating wildly as she talked to a police officer, who was holding Franza’s purse in one hand and her official ID in the other.

“Oh,” said Franza to the assistant. “I see you’ve called in reinforcements.”

She smiled at the police officer, whose relief was plain to see. He must have recognized Franza from her photo.

“Thank God,” he said. “All’s well that ends well. What was the matter, Inspector?”

Franza shook her head and smiled. “Nothing, my friend. False alarm. You can give me my things back now.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, pressing them into her hands.

“No problem.” Turning to the assistant, Franza added, “I’ll make myself presentable now.”

She went into the store and the dressing room, took a last quick look at herself in the jeans, then dragged them down and slipped into her old pants, which would do for a while longer.

The sales assistant had followed her and was now standing, a little bewildered, outside the door.

She cleared her throat. “I didn’t know that
. . .
you
. . .
were a police officer
. . .
”

“No problem.” Franza took a deep breath as she savored the comfort of her old pants.

“Will you be taking the jeans?”

“No,” Franza said. “I won’t be taking the jeans, as I assume you don’t have them in my size.”

The assistant fell into an embarrassed silence, probably feeling uneasy now that she knew Franza was a police officer. She was probably thinking of the traffic offenses she had committed, or the occasional joint she smoked
. . .
no, probably not. Barbies didn’t smoke joints, certainly not aging Barbies. The most Barbies did was to take turns a little fast, causing the tires to squeal and making them laugh out loud. Apart from that, Barbies were good little girls, well adjusted and pretty. On Sundays they went out on the town with Ken and ate
. . .
well, anything but sundaes. Franzas, on the other hand, enjoyed sundaes. Franzas sinned occasionally, sinned like crazy, without so much as a bad conscience.