Tote Bags and Toe Tags (11 page)

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Authors: Dorothy Howell

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“I don't think I should be forced to buy three when all I need is one,” the woman told me.
The man in line behind her rolled his eyes—not that I blamed him, of course. The next three people back shuffled impatiently—not that I blamed them either. I had to get my line moving. Something had to be done.
“Let me see it,” I said, and plucked the pen from her hand. I studied it for about a half-second, then said, “We can probably special order this for you. Just ask them back in our customer service booth.”
Yeah, okay, it was a total lie, but what else could I do?
The woman still didn't budge, and finally said, “Could you call them for me so I don't have to walk back there?”
I hate my life.
I spotted Colleen wandering through the racks of workout clothes near the registers. She'd worked for Holt's longer than I had but never seemed to realize what a crappy job it was. To be generous, I'll say Colleen is a little slow.
Slow
worked for me right now.
“Colleen!”
About thirty seconds passed before her own name seemed to register with her. I waved her over.
“You need to take over for me,” I said. “I have training.”
Yeah, okay, it was another total lie.
“Training?” Colleen asked, looking lost.
“Yeah,” I said.
I punched in what I like to think of as the thank-God-I-can-leave-this-boring-job-now code into the register, and headed for the stock room.
Since leaving Juanita's house this morning and realizing I had to call my was-he-or-wasn't-he-connected contact, Mike Ivan, I knew I'd been putting it off. I mean, jeez, phoning up somebody rumored to be in the Russian mob wasn't to be taken lightly. Sort of like making an impulse purchase at a department store handbag section—yeah, sure, you could pick up a mini skinny or a wristlet with little thought, but a satchel or hobo required considerable contemplation.
But I had to do it. I knew I did. Juanita's life was—maybe—on the line. If anybody could find out who the mystery woman was at Mom's house this morning, it was Mike Ivan.
I hurried through the store, past the lingerie department—keeping my gaze focused straight ahead so as not to encourage customers to actually ask me for help—and went through the doors into the stock room.
It's usually quiet back here, but today I heard voices and all kinds of racket. I followed the sounds and saw two big rigs backed up to the loading dock, and the truck team busy unloading zillions of boxes.
“Hey, girl,” somebody called.
I spotted my Holt's BFF, Bella, lounging on an empty U-boat surrounded by a forest of hanging plastic-wrapped dresses. Beside her was Sandy, my other Holt's BFF.
“What's up?” I asked, as I walked over.
Bella gestured to the dresses. “I'm getting a red thirty-six C underwire for a customer.”
“I'm restocking towels,” Sandy said.
“I'm in training,” I said. I grabbed another U-boat, dragged it over, and sat down.
“Want to hear some crap?” Bella asked.
I always want to hear some crap.
“Holt's is cracking down on training,” Bella said, shaking her head. “They're keeping a log of who goes and who doesn't.”
Holt's was going to make sure we actually attended the training meetings?
Yeah, that was some crap, all right.
“I heard the corporate office is sending someone to the store to monitor attendance,” Sandy said. “No more skipping training for you, Haley.”
This could seriously impact my day here.
The noise level from the receiving department picked up a little. I saw the guys on the truck team closing up one of the big rigs. The engine fired up and it pulled away. Gorgeous Southern California sunshine beamed into the stock room.
“I need a new life,” I said.
“Yeah,” Bella said. “I need a condo on the beach.”
“I wish I was dating a vampire,” Sandy said.
“Now's your chance,” Bella told her.
By the tone in her voice, I knew instantly that I'd somehow missed out on some totally major news.
Bella gestured to Sandy. “Her boyfriend dumped her.” “It wasn't a dumping,” Sandy insisted. “He thought we should break up and I agreed to it.”
“It was about damn time,” Bella said.
I couldn't have agreed more. Sandy's tattoo artist boyfriend treated her like all-out crap, and she was such a nice person, she totally put up with it. I couldn't imagine what had happened that she'd finally agreed to their split.
Then it hit me.
“Tat-boy has a new girlfriend, doesn't he?” I said. Sandy squirmed for a few seconds, then said, “Yes, he's seeing someone. But they only just met. He swore to me that absolutely nothing was going on between them until after we broke up.”
Bella rolled her eyes. “That's b.s., if I ever heard it.”
“You could definitely do better,” I said.
Bella glanced at her watch and stood up. “I've got to go. It's time for my break.”
“See you,” Sandy called with a little finger wave as she, too, headed back into the store.
I knew I had to call Mike Ivan. And I would. Really. But I couldn't bring myself to do it quite yet.
One of the men from the truck team walked to the control panel beside the big rollup door, ready to throw the switches that would bring it down and shut off my view of freedom.
“Hang on a second,” I called.
I hurried over and stood on the loading dock. It was only a view of the back parking lot and the Dumpsters—which was kind of pathetic, I know—but I wasn't ready to let go of it yet.
A yellow VW Beetle shot out of a parking space, whipped past the big rig, and disappeared around the corner of the building.
Hey, wait a minute.
Were there a couple quad-zillion yellow VW bugs on the road these days, or was I being followed?
I pulled out my cell phone. Not only did I need the Russian mob—I needed a smoking-hot private detective.
C
HAPTER
11
I
'd never actually been in a beauty pageant or walked a runway, but I could strut it with the best of them—as long as I was in a dressing room and the clothes were for me, of course.
Marcie had met me at Nordstrom at The Grove after my shift ended at Holt's and we were shopping for business suits. I couldn't possibly show up at work on Monday still wearing my old ones from last fall.
“This will look great on you,” Marcie declared, pulling a suit off the rack.
I'd already picked out about a half-dozen black ones and, really, they were all starting to look alike. But Marcie was almost always right about things so I nodded. The sales clerk who'd been following us around took it and headed off to the dressing room she'd reserved for us.
“How's Ty feeling since his car accident?” Marcie asked, turning back to the rack.
“Okay,” I said, flipping through the suits again. “Except, well, something kind of weird happened.”
“With Ty? Ty's never weird,” Marcie said.
See how Marcie's right about things?
“He told me the accident was kind of a wake-up call for him. He's not going back to work,” I said.
“Ever?”
“And he said he knew he'd been a crappy boyfriend, and that from now on he was going to devote himself to being the kind of man I deserve,” I said.
“Oh my God. Are you kidding?” Marcie spun around to face me. “Did he sustain a head injury in the crash, maybe?”
“I told you it was weird,” I said.
“So what's he done for you to prove he's a great boyfriend?” Marcie asked.
“Well, nothing yet,” I admitted.
“It must have been nice to hear him say those things, especially after what you've been through with him,” Marcie said. “Ty is sort of closed off—to everything but his job, of course.”
Everything that had happened with Ty since I'd gotten the call from the emergency room flashed in my head. Marcie read my expression, as only a best friend can.
“What? What is it?” she asked.
“The whole car-crash thing,” I said. “It was kind of strange.”
Marcie didn't say anything. She didn't have to. She just stood there with a charcoal gray, single-breasted crop jacket and matching swing skirt in her hand, waiting. The sales clerk started to take it from her, then saw our expressions and backed off.
That's
the kind of service you get at Nordstrom.
“The accident was near Palmdale. Holt's doesn't have a store there and doesn't plan to open one—that I know of, anyway. So why was he there?” I said. “And another thing: when I picked him up, he had on jeans and a polo shirt.”
“It was the middle of the day—a work day—and he wasn't wearing a suit?” Marcie asked.
I shook my head. “Amber told me he'd asked her to cancel all his afternoon appointments, then left.”
Marcie didn't say anything.
“I found a receipt from a convenience store in his pocket,” I said. “Like maybe he'd stopped there and changed out of his suit.”
Marcie still didn't say anything, which didn't make me feel all that great. She can most always think of a logical explanation for just about anything.
“And he was driving a rental car,” I said.
“Oh, wow,” Marcie mumbled.
I really wished she could come up with some simple solution to this whole puzzle. The pieces had been swirling around in my head since I picked Ty up from the emergency room, but nothing had fallen into place—nothing that I liked, anyway.
“Do you think he was sneaking off to meet somebody?” Marcie asked. “Another woman, maybe?”
Only a true BFF would have guts enough to broach the subject, and as much as I didn't want to consider the possibility, I knew I had to.
I let the thought sit on my brain for about three seconds, then rejected it like a house-brand purse on a clearance rack.
Ty hadn't been the best boyfriend and we'd had our problems. But no way would he cheat on me. He just wasn't that kind of man.
“He wouldn't do that,” I said.
“Not his style,” Marcie agreed. “So did you ask him about the whole thing?”
I'm not big on suspense, so flat-out asking about something wasn't a problem for me. But between my new job, Violet's murder, Juanita's disappearance, and all the car-crash sex, I just hadn't had time.
“You have to ask him,” Marcie told me.
“I know. And I will,” I said.
Marcie gave me best-friend stink-eye.
“I will,” I swore.
We turned our attention back to shopping. I bought eight suits—four black, two gray, one brown, and a navy blue—then matched up accessories. I couldn't possibly leave the store without shoes, of course, so I found three pair of sassy-but-kind-of-sensible pumps that were actually comfortable. We saved the best—the handbag department, of course—for last.
“You absolutely have to have a good tote for working downtown,” Marcie declared. “Oh my God, the Temptress would look perfect with all of those suits.”
“Sorry, we're out of stock,” our sales clerk, who was still trailing us, said. “I'll put you on the waiting list.”
Just because I couldn't get the
it
bag of the season today, I saw no reason not to buy
something
. I picked out a Michael Kors and a Chanel, and Marcie got a fabulous Betsey Johnson. My graduation gift cards covered everything—well, okay, I did have to break out a credit card or two—and we called it mission accomplished. I'd look great at the office now.
I just hoped I got to keep my job.
 
My cell phone rang just as I swung into a parking space at my apartment complex. Jack Bishop's name appeared on my caller I.D. screen and my heart did a quick double-beat—which was bad of me, I know, especially with my official boyfriend upstairs waiting for me.
But, jeez, Jack was a smoking-hot guy. I wouldn't be a red-blooded American female if I didn't have that kind of response to him. Not only was he absolutely gorgeous, with a great body, thick brown hair, and fabulous blue eyes, but he also had a supercool job.
Jack was a private detective. We met last fall at the Pike Warner law firm. While I toiled away in accounts payable, Jack conducted investigations—discreet and otherwise—on cases involving the firm's wealthy, well-connected, sometimes pompous, and pampered clientele.
Jack also handled cases on the side and—lucky me—I'd helped him out with some of them. We'd always shared some kind of attraction, but neither of us had moved on it. I had an official boyfriend—I was a stickler for that sort of thing—and Ty's family was a lifelong client of Pike Warner.
“What are you wearing?” Jack asked, when I answered my phone.
“Leopard-print boots and a clown wig,” I said.
“I'll be right over.”
He said it in his Barry White voice. My belly felt all gooey inside.
“I only want to use you for my personal gain,” I said.
“I wouldn't want it any other way,” Jack said. Then he switched into private detective mode. “So what's up?”
“I need you to look up a license plate for me,” I said.
“What's the story?” he asked.
Jack and I had been friends for a while and we'd helped each other out a number of times, but that didn't mean he'd jump blindly into something just because I asked, which was kind of annoying, but there it was.
“I think I'm being followed,” I said. “I keep seeing a bright yellow VW Beetle everywhere I go.”
“A yellow Bug, huh? I hear that's what all the international terrorist groups are driving now. Did you notify Homeland Security?” Jack asked.
“I thought you'd like first crack at breaking the case,” I said. “Look, it may not be anything, but there's this other thing going on and it may be connected.”
“Are you talking about Mike Ivan?”
Hearing Mike Ivan's name gave me a little jolt—and not in a good way. First, because the man just had that effect on me and, second, because he was Jack's first thought when I said the word “connected.”
“Don't call Mike Ivan.” Jack's tone changed to don't-screw-with-me-on-this serious.
“I need his help,” I said.
“Don't call Mike Ivan.”
“He told me I could, after that whole thing in Vegas a few weeks ago,” I said. “And I need to find out—”
“
Don't call Mike Ivan.”
It was the closest Jack had ever come to yelling at me, which didn't suit me, but I understood his concern.
“Okay, look,” I said. “I've got this friend Juanita—she's a friend of the family, really. She's missing and there's a possibility she was kidnapped by Romanians or Russians, or something. I figured if anybody can help me learn the real story, it's Mike.”
“Call the police,” Jack said.
“I don't want to involve them yet,” I said. “The whole thing may be nothing.”
Jeez, I really hope the whole thing is nothing.
“How does the yellow VW fit in?” Jack asked.
He was in big-time private investigator mode now. I imaged him sitting somewhere, taking notes and making plans. It was way hot.
“The VW is a whole other thing,” I said. “Maybe.”
“How many
things
are you involved in?” Jack asked.
He was starting to sound a little testy now—which was still way hot, of course—but I didn't want to get into everything with him.
“Just run the VW plate,” I said, and gave him the number I'd memorized when I saw it barrel out of the back parking lot at Holt's.
“Don't make a move on Mike Ivan until I get back to you,” Jack said, and hung up.
I stared down at my phone for a minute, a little ticked off. Jeez, what was the big deal? Yeah, Mike Ivan probably had some connection to the Russian mob and staying away from him was a good idea. But I knew all that. I didn't need Jack ordering me around over it—no matter how hot he looked.
So what could I do but turn into the hardheaded, determined person I'm often accused of being?
I scrolled through my phone book and punched in Mike Ivan's number. It rang once and a shock wave of what-the-heck-am-I-doing shot through me. I hung up.
Okay, so maybe Jack was right. Involving Mike Ivan might not be the best thing to do—right now. I still had other avenues to check out.
I sat in my car and Googled all the hospitals and morgues in the Los Angeles area, then called each one and asked about Juanita. Most of the people I talked to weren't all that pleasant, and it took forever. But no way was I going up to my apartment—with Ty there—and make these calls.
When I got through the list, annoying as it was, I was relieved to learn that Juanita wasn't dead or hospitalized. I sat there for another few minutes, thinking. Mom's accountant's secretary, who'd given me Juanita's address and contact info, hadn't had any phone numbers for family members, so I couldn't think of anyone else to call—except Juanita herself. I called her home and cell numbers and left messages again. Hopefully, even if Juanita was unable to return my calls, some family member might.
I got out of my car, gathered my shopping and garment bags, and trudged up the stairs to my apartment. I was tired and more than a little annoyed—at just about everything in my life.
In the middle of my mental image of me sinking into my couch with a package of Oreos in one hand and a frozen Snickers bar in the other, Ty popped into my head. My official boyfriend was waiting for me in my apartment ready to devote himself to showing me what a great guy he was, and making up for all the crappy things he'd done in the past. My spirits lifted a little.
I wrestled with my bags trying to get my front door open, and finally made my way inside.
Ty sat on the couch. He had on jeans and a henley shirt, and was barefoot. A beer bottle was on my coffee table—no coaster—and a baseball game played on TV.
He hopped up and smiled—Ty's got a killer smile—and took all the bags from me.
“I guess the shopping went well. I want to see everything you bought,” he said, and gave me a quick kiss. “But first, I want to show you what I did for you today.”
He dumped all my bags on the couch, took my hand, and led me into the kitchen.
Immediately, I could see that what he'd done for me
wasn't
loading the dishwasher, wiping down the countertops, or scrubbing the pots and pans he'd obviously used to make himself breakfast.

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