"Right, right," she said, waving a hand. "I get it. What else?"

I sighed and leaned back against the wall. "A friend of mine has gone missing. And I have a reason to suspect it might be tied to someone who's making fake designer handbags locally."

"Okay."

"I don't know if you remember, but my sister's a designer. I take it sort of personally. Besides that, counterfeit luxury goods are tied to all sorts of bad things like child labor and human trafficking and terrorist activities and-"

"What does this have to do with me?"

I sighed again. "I saw Mindy the other night, and she mentioned that maybe-"

"That bitch!" Gretchen shrieked, bouncing up off her ball and landing on her feet. Her face had returned to the same shade it had been upside down, and she looked a little rabid. I tried to take a step back and bumped against the wall.

"I'll kill her!" Gretchen snarled, shaking her bottle of Master Cleanse goo and slopping it on the floor. "That lousy little slut! She put the mustard in my bag on purpose, didn't she?"

"Um, what?"

"I knew it. I just knew it!"

"Gretchen, wait-"

"Stay out of this, JJ," she said, snatching her phone off the table. "This is between me and that little skank I work with. Once I'm done telling everyone she's been blowing the CFO, she'll never work in this town again."

"Please, just hold on a minute. This is about my friend Macy's safety, not about you being pissed at Mindy or-"

Gretchen scowled at me. "What did Mindy tell you?"

I bit my lip, wishing the floor would swallow me up. Gretchen's nostrils flared, and she looked like she was going to hurl the cell phone at me. I caught a movement from the corner of my eye and saw Collin coming down the hall.

Maybe it was the male urge to protect me.

Maybe it was the male urge to see a catfight.

Whichever it was, I had never been so grateful to see him.

"Everything ducky here, ladies?" he asked, cheerfully gripping an expensive-looking bottle of organic salad dressing.

Gretchen frowned down at the dressing. "Is that contaminated with the deadly mold?"

"Well, I really can't be certain without the analysis. I'll need to take it back to my laboratory, of course, run a thorough battery of tests, probably send it out to an independent lab for additional review-"

"Oh," Gretchen said, looking alarmed. "Well, sure. Is that - is that testing expensive?"

"Quite," Collin said. "Of course, I can sometimes be compelled to assist someone who is a good friend of JJ here. Are you a good friend of JJ?"

Gretchen swung her gaze back to me. "Absolutely," she declared. "The best."

Collin smiled.

My knees went melty. I leaned back against the wall, glad it was there to support me.

Gretchen swayed a little, too. She lost her grip on the bottle of Master Cleanse and clutched the edge of the counter. She stared at Collin like he'd just shown her a pocket full of wheatgrass-flavored condoms.

I grinned smugly, glad to see I wasn't the only woman under his spell.

"Of course, good friends tell each other things," I explained to Gretchen. "Like where one might go if one were interested in purchasing a counterfeit designer handbag."

"Hypothetically, of course," Collin supplied.

Gretchen tightened her grip on the counter, her other hand still clutching the phone while the Master Cleanse bottle dribbled its contents on her hardwood floor. She looked from me to Collin and then back at me.

"I'm still going to kill her," she muttered.

"Naturally," Collin agreed.

Gretchen frowned. "Downtown Portland. Just a few blocks south of the Saturday Market, there's this little shop where they sell lucky bamboo and these bookmarks with your name written in Chinese. You have to ask for the bags they don't advertise or anything but there's this whole back area just filled with them."

I nodded, feeling a rush of anticipation. "What color is the building?"

Gretchen rolled her eyes. "I have no idea. There's a green awning though."

"Are they only open Saturdays?"

Gretchen shrugged. "I think they're open every day. I was just there last Wednesday after work, replacing the Chanel that little bitch ruined."

"Thank you," I told her. "That helps a lot."

"Are you calling the cops on them?" Gretchen asked. "Because there's this Coach gallery tote I've been wanting to buy for awhile-"

"I'm not calling the cops," I told her. "Not yet anyway."

Gretchen nodded and let go of the counter. "I'm still going to talk to Mindy-"

"Just leave me out of it," I told her, taking a step toward the door. I glanced down at the floor where Prince was eagerly lapping up the contents of Gretchen's spilled bottle. "And maybe consider taking your dog to the vet."

THOUGH COLLIN HAD plans for the evening, he kindly gave me the gourmet salad dressing pilfered from Gretchen's fridge. He assured me it was perfectly mold-free and quite expensive. I tossed it with a lovely spinach salad that I served with poached salmon steaks in horseradish chive sauce.

"This is so good," Lori told me between bites. At her feet, Blue Cat waited patiently beneath the table for salmon to rain down upon him. "Why didn't you ever want to be a chef?"

I piled another helping of roasted butternut squash on my plate and picked up my fork. "Two major careers by the age of twenty-seven isn't enough?"

Lori grinned. "Well, you've sure as hell got the talent to do this professionally."

"If I did this as my job, it wouldn't be fun anymore."

"Handbags are my job, and I still like those."

"True, but not every hobby should become a job," I pointed out. "Some things are better just saved for enjoyment without all the complications of money and other people's expectations."

My baby sister blinked at me. "Wow. You sound like Dr. Phil all of a sudden."

I shrugged. "I've been learning a few things lately about career choices. About what people expect of themselves, of others, what really makes them happy."

"And?"

"It's not the same for everyone. And there's no magic formula."

"You got that right. I took a gamble turning down a college scholarship to pursue design, and look at me now. I love my career. I wouldn't change a thing."

"Exactly," I said, forking up another piece of salmon. "And Adam went to school thinking that was his ticket to wealth and prestige, and instead he's working in the same field he was trying to escape."

Lori grinned and took a sip of wine. "So where do you and the landfill fit in with all that?"

"I'm happy working at the dump," I said. "I know it hasn't even been two weeks, but I've had more job satisfaction in that time than I had in five years of working in the field I thought would make me happy. I like crushing stuff. I like not dealing with snotty people in business suits. I like that no one cares if my shoes match my bag."

"That's so passe anyway. Only prissy girls match their bags and shoes these days."

"True. But at least no one's judging me for it either way."

"So it's a good thing you got canned."

"I wasn't canned," I insisted. "I was repositioned."

We both went quiet, the silence punctuated only by the sound of soft chewing and forks clinking against the plates. When the doorbell rang, we both screamed.

"Jesus," Lori said. "Guess we're both a little jumpy after the whole handbag thing."

"It's probably Collin," I said as I got to my feet. "He said he might stop by later. I think he likes my cooking."

"That's not all he likes, babe."

I laughed as I stood on tiptoe to peer through the peephole.

For the first time in my life, I found myself staring down the barrel of the gun.

THE END.

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Acknowledgements.

A bajillion thanks to my incredible critique partners Linda Brundage, Cynthia Reese, and Linda Grimes for routinely removing my head from my butt and handing me a washcloth. Thanks also to my beta readers, Larie Borden, Bridget McGinn, and Minta Powelson for your eagle eyes, unvarnished opinions, and unwavering friendship. Oh, and for the wine.

As always, I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my agent, Michelle Wolfson. Thank you for being my advocate, advisor, business expert, gut-check, cheerleader, bodyguard, and above all, friend.

Thanks to Lisa Rutherford, Waynn Lue, and the rest of the Coliloquy crew for inviting me to the party. I promise not to dance on the tables. Much.

I'm also grateful to Melanie Downing, editor extraordinaire, for calling me on my shit and holding my hand until I got it right.

Smooches and squeezes to my writer pals from The Debutante Ball, Rose City RWA, and Mid-Willamette Valley RWA as well as my Twitter friends and amazing blog readers at Don't Pet Me, I'm Writing. I'm also grateful to the Bend Book Bitches for years of support, friendship, and good reading.

Thank you to everyone at the Deschutes County Department of Solid Waste for patiently answering all my questions, and for letting me crawl around on the trash and heavy equipment. I may have taken some creative liberties with details, but I'm eternally grateful for the solid backbone of information you provided. NOW can I drive the compactor?

Though I already thanked Larie Borden as a beta reader, I have to thank her again for being my on-call handbag expert. I appreciate the endless hours of patient explanations over lunch in the man-corner at Clutch: A Handbag Boutique. Thanks also to JJ Shew for the brilliant titles and for letting me borrow your name.

None of this would have been possible without the love, support, and tireless cheerleading from my amazing parents, Dixie and David Fenske, and my baby brother, Aaron "Russ" Fenske, and his lovely lady, Carlie Penn-Earles. I'm so glad you guys are in my corner.

And thank you to Craig my amazing daily reminder that losing something can set off the most breathtaking, awe-inspiring, joyful sequence of events.