gesticulating over the yelps of the dogs. I could imagine what was on the other side. Photographers. Videographers. Reporters. But that wasn’t such a big deal. Not really.
“Well, see? You’re okay. That’s nothing.”
“They … they’re going to print my picture!” she cried out, pulling away from me. So much for comforting my business partner. My words only encouraged her to toss her head back and howl. She clenched her fists and shook them at the big police chief. “You tell them they can’t. Tell them it’s illegal. Stop them! You have to!”
“I’m not sure I can. You lose a lot of your rights to privacy when you own a business open to the public. And, sad to say, when a crime occurred on your property. Or at least when Kiki found the evidence. Your rights collided with the public’s right to know,” he touched a gruff paw to her shoulder lightly. “Now, it’s not such a big deal, is it? Having your picture taken? Maybe they won’t even use it.”
“What if they do?” she asked him.
“That’s great publicity for us,” I answered. “You represent the store well; you’re so stylish.”
“No! I can’t. I don’t want my picture in the news!”
“Why don’t you get her a cold drink, Kiki?” Robbie suggested. “I’ll take a cup of coffee if you have any.”
The refrigerator and coffee pot were on the other side of the stockroom. It took me a while to mix Robbie’s coffee the way he likes it with creamer and sweetener.
On my way back with the drinks, I paused long enough to check on the dogs. From my spot by their playpen, I could see into the office where Bama sat hunched over with a pinched, pained expression. Robbie squatted next to the desk and spoke in low tones. I caught a few words: “Careful … my number … check on you.” I thought I heard something on the order of “let Kiki know,” but to that Bama shook her head violently.
Whatever. I guess we hadn’t really connected. That moment of comfort I’d offered her must not have been the start of a beautiful friendship.
Robbie took his coffee with him as he headed back to the station. By the time Bama finished her cola, Her Frosty Majesty was back on the throne.
The rest of the evening moved along slowly. Most of our customers bought supplies that they intended to use while finishing up holiday cards or special gifts. This worried me. We hoped they would buy gifts for themselves. Or send in family members and friends with instructions to make purchases for them. All along the walls, we draped yards of gold-colored silken cord that Dodie had snapped up from a resale shop for pennies. (Normally we couldn’t have afforded such luxury. That stuff was more per yard than many fine fabrics!) From these “ropes,” we attached festive red and green striped paper cut-outs of stockings. In between these, we tied cinnamon sticks. The air was fragrant with the spicy aroma. Around the “fur-trimmed” top of the socks, customers printed their names. On the various stripes they printed product names on their “wish lists.”
Our idea was to make it easy for customers to shop for each other. Their significant others could also come in and see what they wanted.
But so far, we’d only seen a few of the desired products rung up at the checkout counter. This worried me. We put a lot of money into that inventory.
I concentrated on finishing a holiday e-mail blast while Bama sat in the back and balanced the credit card slips. My computer terminal sat to one side of the front counter. Perched on a stool, I could survey the store as I worked. When Bama came up to do a quick count of Cricut cartridges, I asked, “Did we lose any more?”
“Nope.” Bama’s eye makeup had smeared during her upset, so the woman in my sights looked a tiny bit wonky, like a speckled reflection in an old mirror.
I wasn’t in much better shape. My schnozzle was running like a garden hose. I tried to wipe my nose gently, but the skin was sore and
“Well, see? You’re okay. That’s nothing.”
“They … they’re going to print my picture!” she cried out, pulling away from me. So much for comforting my business partner. My words only encouraged her to toss her head back and howl. She clenched her fists and shook them at the big police chief. “You tell them they can’t. Tell them it’s illegal. Stop them! You have to!”
“I’m not sure I can. You lose a lot of your rights to privacy when you own a business open to the public. And, sad to say, when a crime occurred on your property. Or at least when Kiki found the evidence. Your rights collided with the public’s right to know,” he touched a gruff paw to her shoulder lightly. “Now, it’s not such a big deal, is it? Having your picture taken? Maybe they won’t even use it.”
“What if they do?” she asked him.
“That’s great publicity for us,” I answered. “You represent the store well; you’re so stylish.”
“No! I can’t. I don’t want my picture in the news!”
“Why don’t you get her a cold drink, Kiki?” Robbie suggested. “I’ll take a cup of coffee if you have any.”
The refrigerator and coffee pot were on the other side of the stockroom. It took me a while to mix Robbie’s coffee the way he likes it with creamer and sweetener.
On my way back with the drinks, I paused long enough to check on the dogs. From my spot by their playpen, I could see into the office where Bama sat hunched over with a pinched, pained expression. Robbie squatted next to the desk and spoke in low tones. I caught a few words: “Careful … my number … check on you.” I thought I heard something on the order of “let Kiki know,” but to that Bama shook her head violently.
Whatever. I guess we hadn’t really connected. That moment of comfort I’d offered her must not have been the start of a beautiful friendship.
Robbie took his coffee with him as he headed back to the station. By the time Bama finished her cola, Her Frosty Majesty was back on the throne.
The rest of the evening moved along slowly. Most of our customers bought supplies that they intended to use while finishing up holiday cards or special gifts. This worried me. We hoped they would buy gifts for themselves. Or send in family members and friends with instructions to make purchases for them. All along the walls, we draped yards of gold-colored silken cord that Dodie had snapped up from a resale shop for pennies. (Normally we couldn’t have afforded such luxury. That stuff was more per yard than many fine fabrics!) From these “ropes,” we attached festive red and green striped paper cut-outs of stockings. In between these, we tied cinnamon sticks. The air was fragrant with the spicy aroma. Around the “fur-trimmed” top of the socks, customers printed their names. On the various stripes they printed product names on their “wish lists.”
Our idea was to make it easy for customers to shop for each other. Their significant others could also come in and see what they wanted.
But so far, we’d only seen a few of the desired products rung up at the checkout counter. This worried me. We put a lot of money into that inventory.
I concentrated on finishing a holiday e-mail blast while Bama sat in the back and balanced the credit card slips. My computer terminal sat to one side of the front counter. Perched on a stool, I could survey the store as I worked. When Bama came up to do a quick count of Cricut cartridges, I asked, “Did we lose any more?”
“Nope.” Bama’s eye makeup had smeared during her upset, so the woman in my sights looked a tiny bit wonky, like a speckled reflection in an old mirror.
I wasn’t in much better shape. My schnozzle was running like a garden hose. I tried to wipe my nose gently, but the skin was sore and