No Way to Kill a Lady by Nancy Martin Page B

through the door of a new shop on Walnut Street.
    A crowd of mostly young women dressed in autumn colors and expensive high-­heeled boots fluttered around lovely displays of very pretty lingerie. Brassieres, panties, corsets, stockings of every color and description. The ceiling was crowded with pink Chinese umbrellas—­an attractive decorative touch. For the grand opening, a caterer served tea in small china cups. Nobody took note of the array of scones beautifully arranged on a platter, however—­too many calories, considering the scanty merchandise on display. And nobody talked to anybody else. Everybody had her nose pointed down at a cell phone screen. Most of them seemed to be reading text messages, but a few snapped photos of the merchandise with their phones.
    I could have chatted with a few acquaintances—­I had once socialized with many of the young married women who lived in the nearby posh condos—­but everyone was focused on communicating with people by telephone instead. So I picked out a pair of panties made of delicate pink lace—­just the thing to tempt someone later.
    I met Lynnette Dankenbaugh, the shop’s owner, at the register, where she was playing both clerk and hostess for the opening.
    â€œOh, Nora, thanks for coming! And you’re so sweet to buy something. Maybe you’ll start the trend. If everyone would stop using their cell phones, that is.” Lynnette gave me two kisses before accepting my debit card. Her forehead looked suspiciously wrinkle-­free for a woman just starting her own business. She wore her blond hair in a smooth ponytail, too, and—­always a meticulous dresser—­she sported a trim black pinafore over a polka-­dotted blouse, leggings and a pair of pink Mary Jane shoes. She was going for the youthful couturier look.
    Sometimes when I found myself with a couple of hours between social events, I slipped into the symphony’s rehearsal hall to listen to the music or hiked over to the museum to take a docent tour. I had noticed Lynnette on a couple of the tours, and after a look at ancient Greek pottery she invited me to have coffee with her in the museum’s café. I had learned that she’d found herself at loose ends when her wealthy husband encouraged her to quit working and focus on making their home beautiful. Home decorating had gotten old fast, and she started roaming the cultural scene in the afternoons, too. She had jumped at the chance to talk to someone about what we saw in the museum together, so we met every few weeks for coffee.
    Her dissatisfaction with her home life had eventually led to a divorce. She spent a few months searching for a way to earn a decent living for herself and ended up choosing to open a lingerie shop. I had listened to her planning process for several months and hoped she could make a go of her new enterprise.
    I signed the debit slip. “Everybody thinks the shop is gorgeous, Lynnette.”
    â€œI just hope they buy, buy, buy.”
    â€œHoliday season,” I said as she handed me a decorative bag with my purchase tucked inside. “Husbands will soon be breaking down your door for gifts. And wait until Valentine’s Day. You’ll be swamped.”
    â€œI hope so.” Lynnette managed a bright smile.
    â€œMind if I snap a few pictures? Just in case we have room on the Intelligencer’s Web site ?”
    Lynnette had been hoping for a little free advertising in the newspaper, I knew, but I couldn’t justify making print space for a store opening. The online version of the newspaper always needed fresh content, though. Lynnette broadened her smile. “By all means! Everybody else is.”
    The newspaper rarely budgeted money for a photographer for me anymore, so I had to muddle through with photos I took myself. I posed Lynnette with some of her would-­be customers and tried to crowd some of her wares into the pictures, too. Nothing