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herself?
    A regular customer came in and picked up products on her way to the cash register, chatting to me as she went. She handed me one of our reusable bottles and I filled it with aloe shampoo from a plastic gallon jug. I rang up her purchases, wrapped everything, and handed her the shopping bag. She was in and out of the shop in less than five minutes leaving nearly sixty dollars behind. I gave her a cheerful wave as she left.
    â€œWhat did you put in that bottle?” Lichlyter said. She was chewing the lipstick from her bottom lip.
    â€œWe have an in-house line of lotions, creams, shampoos, cream rinses, that kind of thing. If you have your own container we can fill it with any one of about a dozen different products. Or we’ll start you off with one of our bottles; your friend can bring it in to have it refilled when it’s all used up.”
    â€œShe doesn’t get out.” Her expression sharpened. “You make your own products? Do you have a lab?”
    Somehow I didn’t want to mention Smart Alex. “We buy them in bulk and put our own labels on them.” She appeared to lose interest. I looked around for inspiration. The sooner her shopping was done, presumably, the sooner she’d leave. “Is your friend allergic to animal products?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œThere’s a lanolin-based hand and body lotion made by Gibney Brothers; but some people are allergic to lanolin. And it’s expensive.”
    My other two customers were beginning to look seriously at some Gibney Brothers lotions.
    â€œWe’re the only outlet in the city for those products besides Gump’s,” I said to them with another professional smile. “I think I have a couple of samples here.…” I pulled out two minuscule plastic pillow packs from under the counter and held them out. The woman made up her mind and carried a couple of the ribbed glass bottles over to the counter.
    â€œI’ll take these. They’re so beautiful,” she said. People often say that, as if good-looking bottles with red and gold labels are a guarantee of quality inside. For some reason I thought briefly of Kurt.
    I tossed the samples into the bag, wrapped and rang up the purchases, and then watched in dismay as they left and four teenage girls, pushing and shoving and giggling, fell into the shop. They were a typically San Francisco quartet—one pink-lipped blonde; one African-American with neat cornrows; one stocky Asian girl with a ponytail; one Latina with an elaborate chignon and heavy makeup—and I knew them of old.
    â€œNo school today, ladies?” I said.
    They ignored me and went on clowning, one of them splitting off from her crew while the other three knocked over a display of sea sponges.
    â€œI’d like you to meet Inspector Lichlyter of the San Francisco Police Department,” I said, somehow keeping an eye on all four at once.
    Still giggling, but empty-handed, they sidled out of the door. Lichlyter turned to me. “That looked like an incomplete pass.”
    I picked up the scattered sponges. “They were in here a month ago and after they left we realized they’d lifted forty or fifty dollars’ worth of small items. It’s like a game for some people. Once they succeed, they come back and try again.”
    â€œI’ve noticed a similar pattern in my line of work,” she said heavily. “What were we talking about?”
    â€œLanolin, I think.”
    The man in the purple shorts left without buying anything. I went over to check on the lip balms, but there were no gaps indicating a missing tube. Not that he’d had anywhere to conceal it.
    â€œLanolin. It’s from an animal?”
    â€œFrom sheep. In its natural form it looks like something to grease an axle with—it’s the stuff that makes wool water repellent.” I reached over and took a bottle of the lotion off a nearby shelf.
    â€œWool