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isn’t water repellent.”
    â€œWhile the sheep is wearing it, it is,” I assured her. “Modern wool processing removes a lot of it, but that’s why the original Aran sweaters were so popular with Irish fishermen—they were as good as a raincoat. Warm, too.”
    For some reason she looked wary. “You know some pretty obscure things.”
    I felt suddenly cautious myself. Wariness so often leads to mistrust. And in this case it went both ways. “You probably know some pretty obscure things yourself,” I said. She pursed her lips in acknowledgment. I went on chatting as if nothing had changed, using my shopkeeper’s cordiality as a shield: “I have to know these things. You know what it’s like in this city—everyone wants to know if your products are organically grown, hypoallergenic, and politically correct. Is that handwoven Guatemalan scrub mitt from an Indian craft cooperative? Are those sponges harvested responsibly? Is this shampoo tested on rabbits?”
    She looked at the colorful jars and bottles in front of her and up at me. “You sound—amused?” She said it tentatively, as if the emotion was unknown to her. I thought of Tim Callahan’s body and decided that a sense of humor was probably something she didn’t need too often.
    â€œYou need an appreciation of the ridiculous in a small business.”
    â€œDo you ever get asked for, well, politically incorrect items?”
    Odd question. “Like what?”
    â€œNothing in particular,” she said. “I’ll take that strawberry face mask for my friend.”
    I rolled it in our trademark turquoise tissue. “I can put it in a box and gift wrap it for you. Would you like a white ribbon or a gold one?”
    â€œUm. No gift wrap.”
    â€œThere’s no extra charge,” I assured her, but she shook her head. I slid the package into a bag. “Anything else?”
    â€œDid you take off the price?”
    I raised an index finger decorated with the sticky label I’d pulled off the bottom of the jar. You’d be surprised how many people want proof you’ve done that. Like it’s something anyone would lie about.
    She looked around, apparently not yet ready to leave. “The store is pretty small. Where do you keep your extra stock?”
    â€œWe keep supplies in the garage; there’s plenty of room. I don’t own a car.”
    She dug around in her shoulder bag and took out another notebook and laid it on the counter. She gave me two ten-dollar bills, which she found crumpled loose in the bag. “Nowhere else?”
    â€œIf we’re jammed up, Nicole has one or two places she juggles things around in. That happened around the holidays, but otherwise we don’t order too far ahead. We need to move merchandise through quickly.”
    I rang up the sale and handed over her change. “Is your friend in jail?”
    Her eyebrows went up.
    â€œShe doesn’t get out. No refrigerator. No tub. No gift wrap—as if the contents of a gift have to be checked before she gets it. She could be a nun. But what would a nun do with a strawberry face mask?”
    â€œShe has six years to serve on a sentence for armed robbery,” she said, eyeing me thoughtfully. “She was eighteen and drove the getaway car. She says I saved her from a life of crime and helped her find the Lord. It’s her birthday in a few days.”
    I looked noncommittal.
    She said: “Have you always been in retail business?”
    â€œI used to be a photographer.” A lifetime ago, I thought.
    She raised an encouraging eyebrow.
    â€œA sometime paparazzo,” I went on, hoping I wasn’t giving away too much. “Chasing down reluctant celebs and their lovers. Great fun.”
    â€œWhy did you give it up?”
    â€œI developed too much sympathy for my prey to be a good hunter,” I said aridly.
    â€œNot a problem I’m familiar