Swag Bags and Swindlers (15 page)

C
HAPTER
20

“T
his is quite a coincidence,” Detective Walker said.

“Wouldn't you agree?”

Even though it was a rhetorical question, I wasn't about to let it pass unchallenged.

“No,” I said. “Nothing about it seems coincidental to me.”

I was sitting across the desk from Detectives Walker and Teague in an office they'd commandeered at Hollywood Haven, being asked some uncomfortable questions and getting semi-major stink-eye from them.

Rosalind had come out of her I-found-a-dead-body stupor pretty quickly and made the necessary calls. Two patrol units pulled up right away followed in short order by the usual contingent of law enforcement officials, including Detectives Walker and Teague.

I'd hung around—being the first person to leave the scene of a murder isn't usually a good idea. I'd wanted to make sure Karen had talked to the detectives today about seeing Mr. Stewart go into Derrick's office shortly before he'd been murdered. Now, Teague and Walker were eyeing me and giving off a definite we-think-you-did-it vibe.

“You have to admit, Miss Randolph,” Detective Walker said, “it's suspicious that two people have been murdered and you were here, at the scene of the crime, both times.”

“I'm working on their anniversary gala,” I said, which I'm sure I'd already told them a couple zillion times. “There are numerous things that must be finalized. I have to be here to handle them.”

“And those things just happened to require your presence here on the days two people were murdered?” Detective Teague asked.

Okay, when he put it that way it didn't sound so great for me. Obviously, I had to turn this conversation around.

“Karen intended to talk to you today,” I said. “Did she?”

“About what?” Detective Walker asked.

“Mr. Stewart,” I said. “She saw him outside Derrick Ellery's office shortly before his body was discovered. She said it was unusual. Mr. Stewart rarely went to Derrick's office.”

It was kind of bad of me to throw Mr. Stewart in front of the bus like that, but I was only repeating what Karen had told me. Besides, I had my own suspicions about Mr. Stewart.

The detectives exchanged a look. This was news to them. Karen obviously hadn't had a chance to contact them before she was murdered.

I did a mental fist pump—I knew something about their investigation that they didn't.

“You were aware of this new information?” Detective Teague asked.

“Karen told me all about it last Friday,” I said. “She was upset because she hadn't remembered it when you'd interviewed her.”

“Did she tell anyone else?” Detective Walker asked.

“Nobody that I know of.”

“So it was just you. You're the only one who knew she was about to name names. And now Karen is dead. And you're here again at the scene of a murder,” he said. “Have I got that chronological sequence correct?”

I thought it better not to answer.

“I find myself wondering if it was Mr. Stewart that Karen spotted outside Derrick's office,” Detective Teague said.

“You were outside that office shortly before his death, weren't you, Miss Randolph?” Detective Walker asked.

Oh my God. Now they were double-teaming me. And, really, what they were insinuating kind of made sense—and made me seem guilty.

I'd had enough of these guys.

I shot to my feet, drew myself up into my mom's I'm-better-than-you pageant stance, and said, “I've answered all of your questions. I've told you everything I know—several times. I've cooperated. If you have any more questions, you can call my lawyer.”

I powered my way out of the office, through the lobby, out the front door, and across the parking lot. I absolutely had to get out of there—and I absolutely had to get a lawyer, one of these days.

I jumped into my car and sped away.

Of course, I made for the nearest Starbucks. Thank goodness it was close by. I pulled into the drive-through line, my brain cells bulging with everything that had happened at Hollywood Haven.

Karen was dead. She'd been murdered—shot, just like Derrick Ellery.

It didn't take a homicide detective to figure out that whoever had killed Derrick had also murdered Karen. The motive this time was clear—somebody didn't want Karen blabbing to the cops about the person she'd seen outside Derrick's office the day he was murdered.

I pulled forward with the line of cars and ordered a thought-boosting
venti
mocha Frappuccino.

The obvious suspect was Mr. Stewart. I'd spoken with him earlier and told him that he'd been spotted leaving Derrick's office. Even though I hadn't told him who, exactly, intended to rat him out, it wouldn't have been hard for him to realize it was Karen. After all, the front desk was at the end of the corridor with a direct view of Derrick's doorway.

After I'd left Mr. Stewart's office, could he have found Karen? Confronted her? Then shot her?

It was possible—and I didn't feel so great knowing I might have set that chain of events into motion.

At the pickup window I paid, took a long, much-needed sip of my Frappie, and turned onto Ventura Boulevard. A lot of really unpleasant images of Karen zinged around in my head as I drove.

Then, thank goodness, something else hit me.

Mr. Stewart wasn't the only suspect in Derrick's murder. There were others—and they might have overheard Karen and I talking in the lobby last Friday when she'd blurted out that she intended to contact the homicide detectives today with new information about who she'd seen outside Derrick's office. One of those suspects might have murdered Karen.

I thought back to our conversation in the lobby, trying to remember who'd been there. Emily and Alden the Great. Ida and Sylvia, too. Mr. Stewart had been there. Vida and Rosalind had passed by the reception desk. Delores, Trudy, and Shana were seated nearby filling out the form for Shana's lost earrings.

Three of them were suspects—Vida, Sylvia, and Mr. Stewart. Had one of them shot Karen? If so, they'd have also murdered Derrick. Yet I didn't have any compelling evidence.

Obviously, I was going to have to dig deeper and I was ready to do it—no matter how many mocha Frappuccinos it took.

 

By the time I'd arrived at L.A. Affairs I'd finished my Frappie and I'd called all the vendors who'd been working hard to put the gala together. I assured them the rumors were untrue and unfounded, and that the event was still a go. Everyone was relieved—especially me when I confirmed that none of the companies had dropped the gala from their calendars and scheduled something else.

I stopped by Priscilla's office to share the good news with her—and so she could notate it in my permanent record, of course. She was seated at her desk, sipping coffee, staring at her computer screen and pecking on the keyboard with one long, freshly manicured fingernail.

Obviously, her day hadn't been as stressful as mine.

“The situation with the Hollywood Haven anniversary gala is under control,” I announced from the doorway.

I said it in a slightly breathless, TV-morning-news-reporter kind of way to convey the dire situation I'd just single-handedly averted.

“It's not canceling?” Priscilla asked, a note of caution in her voice, like she wasn't sure she believed me.

As if I'd make an outlandish statement like that if it weren't true.

Well, okay, I might—but luckily I didn't have to.

“I went straight to the director,” I told her, like that old geezer was actually on top of things at Hollywood Haven and I hadn't caught him holed up in his office napping when I'd arrived.

“You did?” she asked, sounding impressed.

“He told me he didn't know where the rumor had come from or how it had gotten started,” I said, which was true.

I still thought he was lying, but Priscilla didn't need to know that.

“I assured him that everything for the event was handled and would proceed on schedule,” I said.

Priscilla slumped in her chair. “That's good news.”

“I called all the event vendors and told them that nothing had changed. The gala is a go,” I said.

“So, no more problems?” she asked.

I saw no need to tell her about yet another murder at the retirement home. Really, what was the point?

“None that I can see,” I told her.

“You're sure?” she asked.

“Positive.”

“There's nothing?” she asked.

Okay, now she was kind of getting on my nerves.

“As you know, Priscilla,” I said in my I'm-going-to-steamroll-over-you-now voice, “an event is a highly fluid situation. Things change quickly. Problems pop up. But no matter what happens, I will handle it.”

She nodded slowly, taking in my words and, hopefully, mentally composing her favorable comments for my job performance review.

I glanced at my watch and said, “I have another appointment.”

I didn't, but I thought it was best to look busy—and leave before Priscilla thought up another question about the Hollywood Haven gala.

“Haley?”

I'd taken only a few steps down the hallway when I heard Priscilla call my name. My own personal take on Holt's training kicked in immediately, so I was tempted to pretend I hadn't heard her and keep walking. But with my entire future resting on my job performance review, I turned back.

“About the lightbulbs you had replaced in the ladies' room,” Priscilla said.

Damn. I knew I should have kept walking.

“They're too bright,” she said.

“They're—what?”

“One of the girls in accounting complained,” Priscilla said.

Somebody claimed the lightbulbs in the restroom were too bright? Jeez, how did she manage when she went outside into the sunlight?

“Have them changed, will you?” she asked.

“I'll check into it,” I said, and mentally shuffled that task to the very bottom of my priority list.

When I got to my office I opened my handbag and fished out my cell phone, and something caught my eye. I dug past my wallet and cosmetic bag—both Coach in their classic black signature pattern—and spotted earrings.

Shana's ruby and diamond earrings. I'd totally forgotten to give them to her today. And not only that, I realized, I had a box of stuff in my car I had to figure out how to return.

I needed to decide how best to handle that situation but, luckily, my cell phone rang, so I could put that whole thing off for a while.

Then I looked at the caller ID screen. It was Mom.

Oh, crap.

“I've had a brilliant idea,” she announced when I answered.

Note: she hadn't said hello or even asked how I was.

“I'm good, Mom, thanks for asking,” I said.

She rolled right past that.

“I've decided I should work in a museum,” Mom said. “I love art and it fits in perfectly with my educational background.”

Mom had gotten her college degree in something to do with art. She'd told me exactly what it was but, honestly, I was never listening.

“I've been thinking, too, about adding my employment restrictions to my résumé,” Mom said. “I want a prospective employer to know up front exactly what my requirements are. Don't you think that's a good idea?”

Why had I answered the phone?

“First of all,” Mom said, “I can't work mornings. My under-eyes are slightly—very slightly, mind you—puffy first thing in the morning, so I can't go out until my cucumber compresses have worked their magic. And, of course, I can't work during my regularly scheduled hair appointment, or my nail appointment, or my massage, my yoga class, or my spin class.”

Why didn't I just hang up?

“Computer work is out of the question,” she said. “I simply will not destroy my manicure by pecking on a keyboard.”

Because Mom was Mom, that's why.

“You know, Mom, museums are open to the public,” I said.

She didn't say anything, but I knew she was mentally recoiling at the thought.

Mom's idea of mixing with a crowd was having Sunday brunch at the Four Seasons.

“All sorts of people go to museums,” I said. “Children, too.”

She gasped. “Children?”

Mom was semi-okay with her own kids, but not exactly the kind of mother to start a play group.

“Busloads of kids,” I said. “They stay for hours. Sometimes they even eat lunch there.”

“Oh, dear.” Mom drew in a breath. “Perhaps a museum isn't the best place for me, under those circumstances.”

“Let me know when you come up with another idea,” I said.

I hung up before she could say anything else.

I'm sure she didn't notice.

C
HAPTER
21

“H
ello? Haley?” Mindy said when I answered my office phone.

I wasn't really up for dealing with Mindy—especially first thing in the morning—but I can push through when I have to.

Besides, my day was off to a good start. I hadn't worked at Holt's last night, so Marcie and I had gone shopping. We'd eliminated three stores from our hunt-for-the-Sassy list, which meant we were closing in on it. Things could only get better.

“Yes, this is Haley,” I said.

“Oh? Oh, goodness. Yes, Haley,” she said. “Well, first of all, I want to thank you for the fine-tipped pens you got for me. Oh, my, they're so nice. I just love them. Thank you so much.”

“You're welcome,” I said, and, really, this was the nicest thing anybody had said to me so far today—who'd have thought it would be from Mindy?

“I just love, love, love them,” she said.

“I'm glad,” I said. “You called for something else?”

“What? Oh, well, no, I don't think so.”

“You said ‘first of all' when I answered,” I pointed out. “So is there some other reason you called?”

There was a long pause, then Mindy said, “Oh! Yes! What was I thinking? You have a gentleman caller in interview room number three. Oh, my, my, my, he's so handsome. He's just about the—”

I hung up.

If a good-looking man was here to see me, I wasn't about to waste time listening to Mindy.

Immediately, I yanked open my desk drawer, dug my cosmetic bag and brush out of my handbag, did a touch-up and a fluff, and headed for the door. I couldn't imagine who might be here. Probably a new client, because none of the men I knew would likely be referred to as a gentleman caller, except for maybe—

Ty.

I froze. Oh my God. Was it Ty?

My thoughts scattered. Was Ty here? Waiting for me in interview room number three? Just steps away?

But why would Ty come to see me? To let me know he'd agreed to be interviewed by homicide detectives in the Kelvin Davis murder case, and that he might be arrested? To tell me he knew I'd staked out Brianna King's house so he wanted to explain everything that had gone on between them? Did he intend to admit that he'd left fifty grand and a handgun in my closet?

Or maybe he just wanted to invite me out to dinner?

I started to feel light headed. My heart raced. I shook all over.

Where the heck was Marcie at a time like this? I desperately needed my BFF right now.

Images of Ty filled my head. Private moments, special looks, whispers. His scent, the feel of his arms around me.

I let those pictures play out in my mind, then shook them away. Ty and I were done. Over. I had to remember that.

I pulled myself together and left my office.

When I walked into the interview room, I was kind of disappointed but not really.

Ty wasn't there.

It was Jack Bishop and—oh my God—did he look hot.

He had on a dark Tom Ford suit with a pale blue shirt and a gray print necktie. I'd only seen Jack in a suit a few times and the sight always took my breath away—along with almost everything else about Jack.

I wondered if he had a gun in a shoulder holster under his jacket. Oh my God, how hot would that be?

Jack stood by the window checking his cell phone. He turned when I walked in and gave me one of his killer grins.

“Morning,” he said, and tucked his phone into the pocket of his jacket.

I smiled because, really, I wasn't yet able to form words.

“You called,” he said.

I had no idea what he was talking about. Nor did I care. I just wanted to look at him.

Jack took a step closer. “Yesterday.”

Finally my you-have-to-speak-now brain cell kicked in.

“Would you like a coffee?” I asked.

More than anything, I wanted Jack to say yes. I wanted to walk him to our breakroom. I wanted absolutely everybody in the office to see me with him and be totally jealous.

“We have pumpkin-flavored creamer,” I said.

Oh my God, had I actually said that?

I'm such an idiot sometimes—well, usually only when Jack's around.

Jack moved even closer. “Sounds good but I'll pass for now.”

He gazed at me, waiting, I'm sure, for me to tell him just why the heck I'd called him yesterday. Then I remembered—which was a complete miracle—that I'd explained what I wanted in the message I'd left on his voicemail.

“Lawsuits,” I said. “I need info on anything involving Hollywood Haven.”

Jack frowned. “What's that got to do with your ex?”

The last time I'd asked Jack for something it was Ty's phone records so I could find out what connection he had to Palmdale and the murder of Kelvin Davis. No wonder Jack looked confused.

“This isn't about Ty,” I said. “It's about another murder.”

“You're involved in two murders?” he asked.

“Technically, now it's three,” I said.

Jack shook his head. “Stay out of it.”

I ignored that and gave him a rundown on what had happened at the retirement home.

“I'm thinking that the employees who were wrongly fired might have filed lawsuits against Hollywood Haven,” I said. “If so, the director, Mr. Stewart, is probably named in those suits and he's probably in a world of trouble. I figure it gives him an excellent reason to murder Derrick Ellery.”

Jack considered this for a moment, then nodded. “It's a possibility.”

“Will you find out about the lawsuits?” I asked.

Jack hesitated, then walked closer. “Are you certain you want me to?”

Oh my God, he'd switched to his Barry White voice.

“Of—of course,” I said.

At least, I think I said it. I meant to. But, jeez, I'm totally empty headed when I hear his Barry White voice.

“We'd had a disagreement,” Jack said, stopping only inches in front of me. “I apologized, but you never accepted that apology.”

He smelled great, and some crazy heat was rolling off him.

Jack lowered his head and said, “I offered to kiss and make up.”

His warm breath puffed against my cheek. His lips brushed my ear.

“Well?” he whispered.

Oh my God, he'd asked me a question—
now?
I couldn't even come up with my own name, at the moment.

Jack stepped back. He gazed at me for a long, hot minute, then walked out of the interview room.

I collapsed into a chair.

 

The Nuovo store closest to my apartment was near the mall in Valencia, so after work I decided to swing by and check it out. I still hoped Holt's would complete the acquisition before I quit my job so I could take advantage of the employee discount that had been increased to twenty percent, if Jeanette's info was accurate. And, of course, I hoped they would have the Sassy satchel in stock.

Maybe I could get them to hold it for me—and one for Marcie, of course—until my discount kicked in.

I shopped at this mall often. It had a nice mix of upscale and midrange stores. An outside plaza opened at one end that gave way to several blocks of trendy shops, boutiques, art galleries, candy stores, a movie theater, office buildings, and restaurants. The narrow streets and wide sidewalks urged shoppers to stroll while oversized display windows invited them inside.

I nosed in at the curb and got out.

The trees and shrubs twinkled with tiny lights and a sound system played a song that, just like in the dayroom at Hollywood Haven, seemed vaguely familiar.

Memories of Ty flew into my head. Wallace, the boutique he'd opened last year, was across the street, and down the block was the restaurant where we'd had our first sort-of date.

How could I be thinking about Ty? Jack had almost kissed me in the interview room at L.A. Affairs today. Shouldn't I be thinking about him instead?

Heck with both of them, I decided, as I headed down the sidewalk. I was on the hunt for an awesome handbag. I couldn't afford to be distracted.

A chime sounded when I stepped inside Nuovo. The shop had a contemporary feel, with pale hardwood floors, track lighting, and chrome fixtures. The salesclerks were all tall, thin women with full-on makeup, dark hair pulled back in low buns, and dressed in short black dresses.

They looked like they'd just walked out of a Robert Palmer music video.

The racks were filled with designer dresses, skirts, blouses, and coats. Shelves held sweaters, jeans, and—handbags. Lots of handbags. Gorgeous handbags. And every one of them seemed to be calling my name, begging me to take it in my arms, caress it, and make it my own.

Immediately I felt at home.

Of course, I checked out the handbag display first. The selection was excellent—Prada, Dior, Chanel, Gucci, all the best names. I was slightly disappointed that the Sassy wasn't there, but not really surprised since it was the hottest bag of the season.

“May I assist you?” a salesclerk asked.

This place had clerks who actually wanted to wait on a customer? How weird was that?

“I was hoping to find a Sassy satchel,” I said.

She smiled a don't-we-all smile—which, I'm pretty sure, she'd practiced in the mirror.

“Perhaps I could order one for you?” she suggested.

“That would be nice,” I said, in a calm, even tone, although I really wanted to swing from one of their chrome dress racks and scream like I'd spotted a half-price Birkin on Black Friday.

We walked to the counter and she started tapping on the cash register's computer screen.

“It may take as much as three weeks to receive your bag,” she said. “Will that be acceptable?”

No, of course not, but I couldn't say so in a nice place like this.

“It's fine,” I said.

“May I have your name?” she asked.

“Haley,” I said, and she began typing again.

“Randolph?” She stopped typing and looked at me. “Haley Randolph? An employee of the Holt's chain of department stores?”

Crap.

I didn't want anyone—certainly not the ultra cool clerks at this fabulous upscale shop—to know I worked at that crappy store. How had she known? I was wearing my black business suit from Nordstrom and carrying my Louis Vuitton satchel. I looked like I belonged here. Had some media blitz gone out announcing it to the world?

Of course, there was nothing I could do but channel my mom's sedate, sophisticated, I-dare-you-to-make-something-of-it expression.

“That's correct,” I said.

The clerk smiled. “Welcome, Miss Randolph. We're so pleased you chose to shop with us this evening.”

Okay, that was weird.

“It seems the Sassy satchel will be available sooner than I'd thought,” she said. “Will the end of this week be satisfactory?”

This place was giving rush service—and being nice about it—to somebody who worked at Holt's? Did they know what kind of store it was?

“That will be fine,” I said. “And I'd like two of the bags, please.”

“Certainly,” she said, and started typing into her computer screen again. “Will there be anything else? Is there another way I can assist you?”

Wow, the service at this place was awesome.

I could never work here.

I thanked her and left the store, then called Marcie as soon as I got to my car. She didn't pick up, but I gave her the good news and told her we'd come back on Saturday for what was sure to be a picking-up-our-Sassy-satchels ceremony orchestrated by the Nuovo clerks, complete with confetti cannons and cascading balloons.

After running into my apartment and changing into jeans and a sweater, I dashed to Holt's. As I jumped out of my car and headed for the entrance, I saw that the Paper-Palooza protesters were still circling, waving their homemade signs and chanting about how Holt's was single-handedly poisoning the planet with our new department.

Apparently, our corporate office hadn't decided what to do about them yet. There were still only a dozen or so protesters, so their movement hadn't gained strength, as Jeanette had feared. Perhaps everybody at corporate was hoping they'd find a new cause to protest or maybe just get tired and go away.

I skirted around them, as I'd done before, but two of the women broke rank and blocked my path. One of them shoved a flyer at me.

“We want you to consider our position, if you're going to shop here,” she told me.

“Really, you should take your business elsewhere,” the other one said.

They thought I shopped here? At
Holt's
?

I didn't know which was worse—having people think I actually bought stuff from this crappy store, or having them think I worked here.

I cut around them, rushed inside, got to the breakroom, and clocked in a leisurely thirty seconds ahead of time.

Bella and Sandy were already headed for the sales floor. I caught up with them in the women's clothing department.

“Remember that girl who used to work here and is a big soap star now?” Sandy said.

I could never recall her name but she used to stink up the breakroom with her diet meals, lost a ton of weight, went blond, got contacts, and made it big in Hollywood. I'd spotted her in person with an entourage while on vacay.

“She's starting her own line of housewares,” Sandy said. “I read it in
People
magazine last night.”

“Maybe she'd like to be the spokesperson for the headwear line I'm going to start after I finish beauty school,” Bella said.