Creep - Jennifer Hillier [72]
In other words, it was hip. And he could count on two fingers the number of times he’d been here.
He trudged up the sidewalk, the black leather bag on his shoulder getting heavier by the second. He was sweating profusely. The Cadillac was parked three blocks down in the only spot he could find. For a neighborhood that prided itself on its nondependence on automobiles, it was interesting how every available parking space within a two-block radius was taken.
He consulted the slip of paper in his hand where he’d written down Jerry Isaac’s address, finally stopping in front of a store called Bead World. Confused for a moment, he looked straight up and was relieved to see a sign in the second-floor window that read ISAAC AND ASSOCIATES, PRIVATE INVESTIGATORS.
He looked around but saw no entrance to the second level of the building. Dismayed, he pushed open the doors to the bead store. The bells that were attached to the door’s frame chimed his entrance. Loudly.
Four ladies were sitting around a large, square white table, all working on projects of some kind—necklaces, bracelets, God knew what else—and they all glanced up as he entered. The room reeked of musky sweetness and he tried not to gag. The only thing he hated more than beads was incense. Plinky New Age music played in the background to complete the experience.
This was Morris’s version of hell.
“Can I help you?” the oldest lady said in a singsong voice. In her hands was a long rope of red and silver beads that matched the sari she wore.
Morris was afraid to venture in farther. Beads of all colors, shapes, and sizes surrounded him, in boxes, in bins, in little plastic bags hooked onto the walls. The smell of patchouli assailed his nostrils. His eyes began to water.
“Uh, yeah, can you tell me how I can get up to the second floor?” His throat was getting sore.
Four pairs of eyes scrutinized him from his tie to his shoes. He was much too dressed up for Bead World, and for Fremont in general.
“The entrance is at the back,” the lady said, the space between her eyebrows wrinkling in disapproval. “If I’ve told Jerry once, I’ve told him a thousand times, put something on that darn sign that tells people to go around back. Is that so hard?”
Morris didn’t think she wanted an answer, so he didn’t offer one.
“You are looking for Jerry, right? It’s either him or Rosemary the psychic. Not that it’s any of my business.”
“Thanks.” Morris turned quickly back toward the door.
“Come through this way!” the lady called. “It’ll save you from walking all the way around the building. Don’t worry, we don’t bite. Unless you ask us to.”
The other three ladies tittered.
Plastering on an uncomfortable smile and trying not to breathe through his nose, he made his way through the aisles of all things bead. He passed the table where the ladies sat and nodded politely.
“He’s cute,” one of them said out loud. “And burly. I like ’em burly.”
He felt his face turn red.
“Straight through, exit out the back, entrance to the second floor is on your right.” The oldest lady appraised him through spectacles perched low on her nose. The glasses were, of course, attached to a long string of shiny black beads that draped around her shoulders and neck. “Stop back in afterwards if you have time. I have an introductory necklace workshop starting in half an hour.”
Morris’s smile was strained. “I’ll try.”
They all tittered again.
He exited and another tinkling of chimes announced his departure. Stepping out into the dreary gray day, he found himself in the building’s parking lot. Half a dozen parking spots were free, of course. Swearing under his breath, he thought of his beloved Cadillac parked three streets away. At least the October chill was refreshing. The incense had left him with a headache.
He took one last breath of fresh air, then headed for the back-door entrance. He was dismayed but not surprised to see