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her think we’re really working on the story she thinks we are. I can’t let Franklin interrupt my flow. “See the two Delleton-Marachelles Franklin has? One of them is—”
    “Stand by,” Susannah interrupts. She flips open a leather-bound portfolio and pulls a calendar out of a pocket, checking the dates with a chunky black ballpoint. She holds up the calendar, her pen pointing to one square. “We’re thinking—first week of November? Thursday? We’ll have a solid lead-in from that new ‘top model’ reality show. Models at ten, then you’re all about fashion at eleven. Perfectamundo. So, Frank? Charlie? Do you love it? I mean, do you love it?”
    My turn for a furtive eye-roll. No one calls him Frank. And I don’t love it. Not one bit.
    “No problem,” I say. “Can do.” I’m performing my dependable reliable worker-bee act. Then I take the two bags from Franklin’s desk and offer them, one in each hand, to Susannah. Big smile.
    “Up for a pop quiz?” I ask. “Think you can pick out the authentic D-M? Franklin just asked me if I can—but maybe you should try.”
    “Let’s see if Charlotte can do it,” Franklin says, interrupting. He pushes the two purses back toward me, smiling like a ten-year-old trying to taunt his big sister. “Just for fun.”
    “Sure,” I say. I look at Susannah, and try for some wiggle room. “I just got back from Baltimore, though, remember? Franklin’s had more time.”
    “Chicken,” Franklin says.
    “You’re on.” I wish I could stick my tongue out at him, but I know that’s unprofessional. And it would let him know he’s won.
    Okay. How do I tell the real thing? At first, the bags look identical. I choose one, and turn it over, examining, remembering the research Franklin and I have already done. I check the stitching, the leather piping around the edges, the metal d-rings that hold the camel leather handle. The brown-and-tan logo pattern matches at the side seams. That’s a point for authentic. The zipper sticks. Possible fake. The lining is flat and the stitches are even. I open an inner pocket. There’s a tiny brown leather rectangle, stamped in gold with the D-M logo. Good. A tiny label says: made in China. Hmm.
    The second bag. This one’s handle is wrapped in protective plastic. When I zip it open, the zipper sticks. There’s no “made in China” label. I zip open an inner pocket. Inside is an identical tiny dark brown leather rectangle, letters on it stamped in gold: Delleton-Marachelle. Below the name, it says: Made in Paris.
    “Aha!” I say, pointing a finger to the ceiling in triumph. I attempt a French accent. “I have deescovaired ze secrette. Eeet ess—” I can see Susannah is not amused. To her, humor is as alien a concept as compassion. I hold out the bag marked “made in China” and talk like myself again. “This one.”
    Susannah deflates, her shoulders drooping and her lined lips pursed in disapproval. “Made in China? That’s how you tell it’s fake?” Her voice gets more brittle with each word. She taps her folder with that pen. Considering. “I’m thinking we may have to re-slot this story. Maybe hold it for after the sweeps. I mean,” she pauses, closing her eyes as if we’re just too, too ridiculous. “China?”
    “No, wait, Susannah,” I say. “You’ve got it wrong.” Almost always, I don’t add.
    Franklin’s turn to pantomime applause. “You’regood, McNally,” he says with a double thumbs-up. “How’d you know?”
    “Well, it’s the label of origin,” I explain. “Isn’t that it? This one says Paris. And we know—”
    “Right,” Franklin interrupts. “Most people think D-M bags are made in France. But we know—”
    I turn to Susannah, picking up Franklin’s train of thought. “Their main office is in Paris. Their fabric is made in France. Their hardware is stamped in France. Their brand-new design headquarters are in Atlanta. But these babies are actually put together…”
    I pause just