A Body to die for

women were talking at a counter. One woman’s back was to me. She had straight brown hair and a tight ass in jeans. Her tank top showed off the taut back of her arms. The other woman, behind the counter, had a fluff of gray hair piled high on her wrinkly head. She was punching keys on a computer and nodding. She groped for something on the counter without looking away from the computer screen. Her free hand held aloft a shiny, sleek object that reflected the track lighting: the Bjornskinki bread knife.
    Grandma examined the knife and punched a few more keys. “We already knew they sold the knife here, Jack,” I chided.
    “Look at the customer,” he said. As if on cue, the thin brunette picked up the knife herself and tested the serration on her thumb. She turned profile and made an abrupt chopping motion, splitting the air. Jack drew in his breath so loud that the brunette turned in our direction.
    “Molly,” I whispered. The waiter/drug pusher from the Slimmy Shack.
    “She must be the killer,” Jack decided. “Let’s get her!” He took a running step. I stuck out my foot to stop him. He fell on his face, cracking my sunglasses. All the customers within earshot jolted at the sound. I dragged Jack back behind the boxes by his flip-flops.
    “Billy,” I said loudly. “Stop climbing on the woks.” It was a terrible cover. Molly would spot us now for sure.
    After a few seconds, I dared to take another peek. I breathed out when I saw her back. Grannie finished processing the order. Molly took her receipt and left. I wondered briefly if I looked that good going. I doubted it. A wave of insecurity swept over me like brushfire. I reminded myself that it was unZen to compare myself to others.
    I said to Jack, “You okay?” He grunted. I helped him to his feet. I squared him off to face me and said, “Tell me I’m a babe.”
    He said, “I’ve got plastic in my eye.”
    “Are you saying I’m fat?”
    Jack did a double take. “I’m saying nothing except that if you trip me like that again, you’re fired.”
    I turned away in frustration. No wonder Ameleth wanted to divorce him. The computer lady had left her post and was helping another customer. I checked to make sure Molly was gone and went over to see if the computer information was still up on the screen. It wasn’t. I stepped behind the terminal to try and call it up.    1
    “Excuse me,” someone said. I smiled and turned, ft was Grandma. I pulled the murder knife out of my pocketbook. Before I got a chance to ask her if it was the same knife, she screamed. Maybe I shouldn’t have held it over her head like that. I tried to calm her down, but a small crowd gathered. I hoped there weren’t any hero types nearby. I dropped my knife hand and started protesting my innocence.
    “What now?” boomed the now-familiar voice of Branford. “Put that knife down!” I dropped it on the floor. Branford picked it up, adding perhaps the hundredth set of prints to the handle. He looked around for Jack. I didn’t see him either. Fuck, I thought.
    Branford said, “It’s okay, people. Nothing’s wrong.” He squinted at me. The crowd dispersed. This was probably the most thrilling shopping day in Branford’s history at Ikea. I said, “I’m not going to make any sudden movements.”
    Branford slapped the flat blade against his palm. “I think I’d better call the manager.”
    I said, “Only if you want to see my gun, too.” The older woman swooned. Branford’s face turned white.
    “What do you want from us?” he begged. “We’re just simple nonviolent wholesalers.”
    “You recognize this knife?” I asked Grandma.
    She took the blade from Branford. She inspected it and nodded. “It’s the same one,” she said, and pointed at the sample Molly’d just handled. She gave the knife back to me. I buried it in my bag.
    “You have to order it from Sweden, right?” I asked. She nodded, and then finally said, “It’s made with a top-secret Swedish method of tempering metal. It’s very expensive—three hundred dollars for this one knife. The whole set costs over a thousand.” I wondered where Alex got that kind of money to chop vegetables. Then again, he wondered where I got the money to buy Donna Karan cashmere socks.
    “I need to talk to Branford alone,” I said to Grannie. That was fine with her. She scooted over to the shower curtain display in two seconds flat. “I need a record of everyone who’s special ordered this knife or the