Pocketbooks and Pistols

by Dorothy Howell

  How could it not?

  The last time I’d seen Ty was a few months ago. He’d been through a rough patch. In a move totally unlike him, he’d taken a leave of absence from Holt’s, bought a cherry-red convertible Ferrari Spider, and hit the road.

  I stared across the street at the outdoor seating area of the restaurant where we’d sat on our first kind-of date. Ty, so handsome. Generous to a fault. Kind, caring. He was everything I wanted in a boyfriend—except for his inability to commit to me and put our relationship first in his life.

  But he’d sort of done that, I reminded myself. A few months ago, that last time I’d seen him, he’d come to the Holt’s store in the Ferrari and told me he was going away for a while. He’d asked me to come with him.

  My heart still fluttered at the recollection.

  He’d been through a lot, and I could tell he was questioning most everything about his life. He needed time to figure things out, and I knew he could only do that alone.

  I’d told him no. I didn’t go with him that day.

  I hadn’t heard from him since.

  Heaviness settled around me, and it would have been easy—welcome, almost—to slip back into the zombie-like state I’d existed in after our breakup.

  But I couldn’t allow myself to go through that again.

  So what could I do but think about murder?

  I turned away from Wallace and the restaurant, and headed the other way down the sidewalk.

  Asha McLean had been murdered, shot in the chest, behind the Holt’s store. What was she doing back there?

  Aside from delivery trucks and the trash collectors, the only things that should have been back there were employees parking their cars. But Asha didn’t work for Holt’s. If she had been at the store shopping, why wouldn’t she have parked out front?

  It occurred to me that maybe Asha had gone to work at one of the stores that adjoined Holt’s in the shopping center. But if that were true, why would she be behind Holt’s and not the store at which she was employed?

  Detective Madison had suggested something illegal was going on with Asha. Maybe he knew something or maybe he was just fishing, trying to get info out of me. At this point, I had no way of knowing.

  She could have been having a smoke or meeting someone. A boyfriend, maybe? I had no clue.

  She’d worked at Holt’s as a sales clerk during the Christmas rush. Honestly, I barely remembered her. The store had been the usual holiday mad house of cranky customers, screaming kids, and long hours. I couldn’t even say with any certainty when Asha was hired or when she quit.

  The only thing I knew about her for sure was that Detective Madison was trying hard to pin her death on me.

  I checked my cell phone. Marcie still hadn’t texted me. She worked at a bank in downtown Los Angeles and was probably inching her way through rush-hour traffic.

  I’d promised I’d wait for her to check on the Mystique at Nuovo, but I couldn’t stand around any longer. My evening definitely needed a boost. She’d understand. That’s what BFFs did.

  A chime pealed when I stepped inside Nuovo. The shop had pale hardwood floors, chrome fixtures, and track lighting—very contemporary. The sales clerks were all about my age, tall, thin, with full-on makeup, dark hair pulled back in a low bun, and short, black dresses.

  They looked like they were all members of some ultra-cool cult.

  I mean that in the nicest way, of course.

  The fashions here were beyond phenomenal. Racks of designer dresses, skirts, blouses, and coats, and shelves that held sweaters, jeans, and—handbags. Lots of handbags. Gorgeous handbags.

  This was, I’m sure, what heaven looked like.

  “Good evening, Ms. Randolph,” a sales clerk said as she walked over. “May I assist you?”

  Wow, was this awesome service, or what? I’d only been in here a few times, but all the clerks remembered my name.

  On occasions such as this, I couldn’t help channeling my mom’s sedate, sophisticated perhaps-I-will-allow-you-to-wait-on-me look—it must be genetic—and said, “I’m interested in a Mystique bag.”

  Yes, I actually said that quietly when what I wanted to do was rip through the stockroom and find it myself.

  “An excellent choice,” the clerk replied, smiling and nodding her approval. “Do you have a personal shopper with us, Ms. Randolph?”

  During my previous visits here, no one had mentioned a personal shopper. This must be something new—which I was totally on board with.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Then please allow me to assist you,” she said. “My name is Chandra.”

  I gestured to the handbags on display—Gucci, Dior, Gucci, Prada, all the best designers—and said, “Do you have the Mystique available this evening?”

  “I’m so very sorry, Ms. Randolph. The Mystique isn’t in stock yet. We’re waiting to receive our first shipment, and are anxious to see the bag ourselves. The demand is so great, the designer can’t keep up,” Chandra said. “I hope you’ll accept my apology that we’re not able to provide you with one this evening.”

  How could anybody be that nice?

  Maybe she was really a robot.

  “If you’ll allow me,” Chandra said, “I would be pleased to order one for you.”

  She wouldn’t last ten minutes working at Holt’s.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll need two of them.”

  “Of course. Would you kindly walk this way?”

  She led me to the cash register at the rear of the store and tapped the keys for a few seconds, then nodded.

  “Your bags will arrive in a few days,” she said. “Shall I text you when they arrive?”

  “Please do,” I said.

  She hit a couple more keys, then said, “May I assist you in any other way?”

  A zillion things flew into my head—I was a sort-of suspect in a murder, my ex-official boyfriend hadn’t contacted me in months, there wasn’t enough work at L.A. Affairs to keep me busy so I had to spend time at Holt’s—but she couldn’t help me with any of those things. I thanked her and left the store.

  Just as I stepped outside, I spotted Marcie’s car swinging into a parking space. She jumped out and walked over.

  “My phone died,” she told me, “and I forgot my charger this morning.”

  Marcie was petite and blond—my polar opposite—and loved fashion as much as I did. She had on a fabulous pencil skirt and sweater that were really working for her.

  “You got new boots?” she asked.

  “They’re kind of slutty.”

  “I know. I love them.”

  I nodded toward Nuovo. “I ordered Mystiques for us. They’ll be here soon.”

  “Awesome,” Marcie said. “Dinner?”

  “As long as we start with drinks,” I said, which, really, wasn’t like me. I’m a real old lady when it comes to drinking and driving.

  “It’s been that kind of a day, huh?” Marcie asked.

  “Like you wouldn’t believe.”

  We walked down the block to a little bistro and got a table outside. Nights in Southern California, even January nights, were seldom cold, but there was a fire pit and several heaters going, making it comfy. Most of the tables were filled. Conversation was subdued.

  We ordered wine and dinner, then got right into it.

  “Okay, what’s going on?” Marcie asked.

  “I found somebody murdered at Holt’s today.”

  “You did?” Marcie didn’t seem surprised. She’d been through this with me before. “I hadn’t heard.”

  The Holt’s publicity department had lots of practice keeping this sort of thing quiet—finally, something corporate did right.

  “And you’ll never guess who caught the case,” I said.

  “Oh, no.” Marcie shook her head. “Not Madison.”

  “He’s already gunning for me.”

  The waiter served our wine. I took a big sip.

  “Shuman promised to keep me up to speed on t
he investigation,” I said. “I’ll see what I can find out at the store.”

  “Aren’t you working at L.A. Affairs this week?”

  “I don’t really have much going on there. Nobody does, at this time of year,” I said.

  “What about Valentine’s Day?”

  I drank more wine. “No way. I told them I’m not planning any Valentine’s Day parties.”

  “So you’ll be free that night. Cool.” Marcie smiled. “Does this mean you’ll be hosting your own, shall we say, private party?”

  “I’ve thought about it,” I said and emptied my glass. “How could I not? I mean, he’s got to come back sometime. Maybe he has a big surprise reunion planned for us? A romantic evening or maybe a weekend? Valentine’s Day would be the perfect time, right?”

  Marcie stared at me for a minute then said, “You’re talking about Ty, aren’t you?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “I’m talking about Liam. Liam Douglas. Remember him? The totally hot guy you’ve been dating?” Marcie demanded.

  Oh my God, she was right.

  “And you’re talking about Ty, the guy who always put you second, broke up with you, then left town and hasn’t contacted you once,” Marcie said.

  She sounded slightly annoyed and put out with me—and really, I couldn’t blame her.

  “For all you know, Ty is already back in town and hasn’t bothered to call you,” she said.

  Okay, that kind of hurt.

  But Marcie was right. Marcie was almost always right.

  She’d been with me through my breakup with Ty and had helped me get over what had happened, and move on. I’d been a mess, and I could see why she didn’t want me backsliding.

  “Is this why you’ve been holding back with Liam?” Marcie asked. She gave me a pointed look. “You know you’ve been doing that.”

  She was right—again.

  Liam and I had been dating for a while. We were past the I-have-to-eat-a-salad-at-dinner-so-I-don’t-look-like-a-pig phase of our relationship, but we hadn’t gone much further than that.

  The waiter stopped at our table and served our dinner. I ordered another glass of wine.

  “Did you see any other fabulous handbags at Nuovo?” Marcie asked.

  I was relieved she’d changed the subject. We chatted for a while, made plans for claiming our Mystique bags when they arrived, and finished our meals.

  “I’d better go,” Marcie said. “There’s a big meeting first thing in the morning. I can’t be late.”

  “I have a shift at Holt’s tomorrow,” I said.

  We paid our tab and walked back to our cars. I waved good-bye to Marcie as I got into my Honda. She drove away, but I couldn’t seem muster the strength to put my key in the ignition.

  Thoughts of Ty, Liam, Asha, Detective Madison, and Holt’s raged in my head. I was mega-stressed.

  No way could I go home. All I would do there was sit and stress myself out even further. I thought about calling Liam—he was, after all, my sort-of boyfriend—but we hadn’t reached a point where I felt I could turn to him for comfort. Maybe I could go shopping. Or maybe I could—

  Somebody tapped on my window. I jumped, then saw Jack Bishop leaning down, looking in at me.

  Oh my God—oh my God. Jack Bishop.

  Jack was simultaneously the hottest—and the coolest—guy on the entire planet. He was a private investigator, and as if that weren’t fabulous enough, he was gorgeous, with a great build, dark hair, and eyes almost too beautiful for a man.

  We’d met when I’d worked for a law firm downtown where he did some consulting. Jack was wired into almost everything. We’d worked together on some cases but hadn’t gotten personally involved because of that whole I-have-an-official-boyfriend thing.

  He opened my door and I got out.

  Wow, he smelled great.

  “Meeting someone?” he asked.

  “Marcie. She just left,” I explained. “What about you?”

  Jack nodded down the block. “I met with a new client.”

  We looked at each other for a few seconds, then Jack said, “How about a drink?”

  I’d already had two glasses of wine, and one was my limit when I was driving.

  But one more glass of wine couldn’t hurt anything.

  Could it?

  CHAPTER 4

  What the heck?

  My eyes opened to tiny slits. They felt scratchy. My mouth tasted yucky, and jeez, my head was hurting. What was wrong with me?

  I forced both eyes open and—

  Where was I?

  I sat straight up in bed—oh my God, I was in bed?

  I went into semi-panic mode as I looked around.

  This wasn’t my bed. It wasn’t my room.

  And whose T-shirt was I wearing?

  I sprang up, hurried to the window, and cracked the plantation shutters a tiny fraction. Morning sunlight beamed in, nearly blinding me. I squinted and saw a parking lot one floor below, and realized I was in an apartment or maybe a condo complex. But whose?

  My phone was on the nightstand. I grabbed it and saw I had one missed call. It had come in late last night from Liam.

  I looked around the room—gray sheets, dark wood furniture, decorator-selected art on the walls—and knew it was definitely a man’s room.

  Liam’s room?

  My brain refused to process any information, but I forced myself to think.

  No, I hadn’t seen Liam last night. At least, I didn’t remember seeing Liam last night. The last thing I clearly remembered was meeting up with Jack and—

  Oh my God. Oh my God.

  Was I in Jack’s bedroom?

  Had I spent the night here? With him?

  I crept to the bedroom door and opened it a crack. All I could see was a hallway, the doors to another bedroom and a bathroom, and a staircase leading downstairs. I saw no one. I heard nothing.

  Should I call Jack’s name? No, wait. What if I really was at Liam’s?

  Would that be totally awkward, or what?

  Okay, this was more than I could handle.

  I dashed around the bedroom, threw on my clothes, and grabbed my cell phone. As I was envisioning calling Marcie to pick me up, I rushed down the stairs and spotted my handbag and keys on a table by the front door. Next to them was a stack of mail. The Edison bill on top was addressed to Jack.

  Oh my God, what had I done last night?

  I ramped up to total panic mode.

  Squeezing my eyes shut, I forced my thoughts back to last night. The restaurant. Having another glass of wine. Talking to Jack about the murder at Holt’s. Having another glass of wine. Telling him about the Mystique clutch. Having another glass of wine. Telling him about . . . about—oh my God, I couldn’t remember what else I’d talked to Jack about. I couldn’t remember what had happened after that.

  My eyes popped open.

  Jack must have brought me here. Had I passed out? Was my mouth gaping open? Was I snoring? Drooling?

  The cringe-worthy image sent a shudder through me.

  No way did I want to see Jack right now. Not when I couldn’t remember exactly what had happened. Not when I was at this much of a disadvantage.

  I grabbed my things, went outside and followed the sidewalk to a parking lot. I hit the button on my remote, my car chirped, and I spotted it at the end of the row.

  I had no idea how it had gotten here.

  I really hoped I hadn’t driven it.

  I jumped in and sped away.

  * * *

  “I knew you’d screw up the orientation, Princess,” Rita barked as I walked into the Holt’s employee breakroom.

  After the morning I’d had, Holt’s, orientation, and Rita—most especially Rita—were the last things I was concerned about.

  Leaving Jack’s place—oh my God, I still couldn’t believe that had happened—I’d swung through Starbucks, which I desperately needed, and chugged my all-time favorite drink, a mocha Frappuccino. I’d gone to my apartment and pulled myse
lf together, and had managed to get to Holt’s on time.

  I still didn’t feel all that great—despite the Frappie.

  This thing with Rita wasn’t helping.

  About a half-dozen other employees were scattered around the breakroom, some eating, others chatting, all of them wishing they were anywhere but here.

  Or maybe that was just me.

  “Because of you, almost all the new hires quit,” Rita said.

  I walked past her and stowed my handbag—a Dooney & Bourke barrel that far surpassed my Holt’s-worthy jeans and navy-blue sweater—in my locker. I palmed my cell phone— we’re not supposed to have them with us on the sales floor, but oh well—and saw a text from Juanita.

  Crap.

  How much worse was this day going to get?

  Juanita was my mom’s housekeeper. She’d been with our family for as long as I could remember.

  I ignored the text and slid my cell phone into the pocket of my jeans.

  “Now what are we supposed to do?” Rita demanded, as I headed for the time clock. “We’re short-staffed.”

  Some of the employees seated at the tables glanced at me.

  “Everybody is going to have to work longer hours,” she said.

  A murmur went through the room.

  “Everybody is going to have to cover more shifts,” Rita went on. “Days off and vacations will be cancelled.”

  Now everyone was staring.

  “All because you screwed up the orientation,” Rita told me.

  The unpleasant murmur morphed into grumbling, and I was hit with major stink-eye from everyone.

  “You’d better hope the rumor I heard isn’t true,” Rita said.

  Rumor? What rumor?

  I hate it when I miss a rumor.

  A guy I didn’t know got up from a table. “Yeah, thanks a lot, Haley.”

  Two girls rose, gave me serious bitch face, and followed him out of the breakroom.

  Rita glared at me for a few more seconds, then left.

  Oh my God, what was going on?

  In a complete departure from my own personal code of conduct, I clocked in three minutes early and went out onto the sales floor. The store was crowded, thanks to Holt’s yes-Christmas-is-over-but-that’s-no-reason-not-to-continue-running-up-your-credit-card January sales.