I made my way past the children’s clothing department to the housewares section. I spotted Bella unloading towels from a U-boat. Today she’d fashioned her hair into a number of disks that spanned her head.
She looked like a radar installation.
Standing next to her was Sandy, my other Holt’s BFF.
Sandy was young with hair that varied between red and blond, which she usually wore in a ponytail. She always managed to find the best in any situation—which was really annoying at times—including her tattoo artist boyfriend who treated her like crap. Despite my oh-so-good advice, she refused to break up with him.
Go figure.
“Everybody’s talking about what happened yesterday,” Sandy said, as she arranged washcloths on a display shelf. “Poor Asha.”
Here was the boost my day desperately needed. Maybe I could learn something that would lead me to Asha’s murderer and get me out of Detectives Madison’s crosshairs.
“You knew Asha?” I asked.
“She was nice,” Sandy said.
“I thought she was weird,” Bella told me, and wedged a stack of towels onto a shelf.
“She was so interested in everything that went on in the store,” Sandy said. “She loved it here.”
“See? Weird,” Bella said.
I couldn’t disagree.
“She wanted to know all about where the stock came from, who kept track of the inventory, what happened to the merchandise that didn’t sell,” Sandy said. “It seemed like she wanted to seriously work here. Seriously.”
Bella and I exchanged an eye roll.
“So why did she quit?” I asked.
“Maybe she came to her senses,” Bella said.
“No, no, I don’t think that was it,” Sandy said, and lapsed into thought for a few seconds. “She got a better-paying job, I think. Yeah, that was it. She really needed the money.”
“Remember that old beat-up Chevy she drove?” Bella said.
The thing was a real eyesore, with a bashed-in door, a dent in the rear bumper, and a primer-gray fender. You couldn’t miss it in the parking lot.
“Any idea why she was here yesterday, hanging around out back?” I asked.
“No clue,” Bella said, and picked up more towels from the U-boat. “You ask me, it’s all b.s. Nobody’s ever going to see me hanging around this place after I quit. That would be b.s. Serious b.s.”
Sandy shrugged and said, “I can’t believe Asha’s really dead. It’s so sad.”
“And I can’t believe they’d close the store because of her,” Bella said.
My senses jumped to high alert.
“That’s the rumor going around?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Bella said. “What’s supposed to happen to all of us?”
“Holt’s has a lot of stores,” Sandy said. “They can transfer us.”
“After they work us half to death because we’re short-handed,” Bella said. “They might even cancel my vacay. Now that’s some b.s. right there.”
“Everybody is blaming me for the new hires quitting,” I said. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“Well, Haley, you did find the dead body,” Sandy pointed out.
That made perfect sense so, of course, no way did I want to hang around and deal with it.
“Later,” I said, and headed back across the store.
I’d been in such a rush to get out of the breakroom earlier, I hadn’t checked the schedule to see which department I was assigned to work in. But when I reached the breakroom, I didn’t go inside. I decided to talk to Jeanette and see if I could get more intel on the store-closing rumor.
My cell phone vibrated in my pocket as I headed down the hallway. Liam flew into my head. He’d called me last night.
I cringed at the memory. Liam was my sort-of boyfriend. Not only had I not returned his call last night, I’d . . . I’d—
Well, I’d done something. I didn’t know what, exactly, which was why I never drank to excess. If I did something crazy or wild, I wanted to remember it, not be shocked when the pics showed up on Facebook.
I checked my phone’s ID screen and saw another text message from Mom’s housekeeper, Juanita. This was really strange. It had been a really strange morning. I wasn’t all that happy about adding my mom to the mix.
Mom was a former pageant queen. In fact, she still thought she was a pageant queen. Everything in her life revolved around fashion, beauty, appearance, and, of course, herself. She was stunningly beautiful and completely out of touch with reality.
I’m not like that.
Growing up was a real joy.
Juanita’s text indicated I should call because something was wrong. I wasn’t alarmed. Mom’s problems ranged from booking an emergency manicure after spotting a hangnail to requiring a therapy session because her issue of Vogue had arrived with a wrinkle in the cover.
No way was I calling her now.
When I walked into Jeanette’s office, I thought I was on the verge of fainting, then realized the spots appearing before my eyes were actually on the purple and white polka-dot shirtwaist dress she was wearing.
Not a good look for her.
“Is the rumor true?” I asked as I walked inside.
Yeah, sure, Jeanette was the store manager and I was a lowly sales clerk, but Jeanette knew I’d been dating Ty, her boss. This obligated her to cut me some extra slack. She must have learned that Ty and I had broken up, but so far she hadn’t treated me in a fashion commensurate with my position. I figured she was reluctant to do so, in case Ty and I got back together.
Really, you can’t blame her.
“Corporate wants to get out in front of this situation and resolve the matter before it becomes a big news story,” Jeanette explained.
If the store were already closed, even something as salacious as finding a murder victim on the premises would lose most of its punch, leaving little to report on. I could see why corporate thought this was a good idea—except for one thing.
“What about the employees?” I asked—and our employee discount, I wanted to add. I didn’t. It might make me seem shallow. Which, I guess, I was. But, oh my God, this involved an eighty percent discount on the fabulous Mystique clutch bag. How could I not be concerned?
“We’ll be transferred to other Holt’s stores, right?” I asked.
Jeanette’s expression turned grim—not a good sign.
“Sales are down this month, as usual for January,” she said. “There are a few openings in other stores. Not many.”
This was really not a good sign.
“So who will get transferred to the open spots?” I asked, thinking, And keep the employee discount at Nuovo, of course.
“Employees selected for transfer will be those who have achieved our Employee of the Month award,” Jeanette said.
What?
“The store will present one final award this month,” Jeanette explained. “Whoever earns it will be assured of a place in another of our Holt’s locations.”
I went into serious panic mode.
To keep my job—and my employee discount at Nuovo—I was going to have to be the Employee of the Month?
Oh, crap.
CHAPTER 5
Oddly enough, I’d never been the Employee of the Month. I had no idea what the requirements were, but I knew I should find out.
I left Jeanette’s office and stopped at the customer service booth. I’d often been assigned to this area of retail purgatory where we handled returns, did price adjustments, gave out gift boxes, and pretended to listen—maybe that was just me—to customers’ complaints.
Grace was inside tapping on the keyboard of the inventory computer, putting a pile of returned sweaters back into the store’s stock. I liked Grace. She was cool to work with—and that’s saying something here at Holt’s. She was young, petite, and always wore her hair in the trendiest styles. Just a week ago, she’d shaved one side of her head, left the rest of it short and spikey, and dyed it blue. It was really worki
ng for her.
“What do you know about becoming the Employee of the Month?” I asked when she walked over.
“Not much, since I’m marooned in this booth,” she said. “There are sales goals and something about attendance, I think, that sort of thing. The info is in the employee benefits handbook.”
Was I the only person who didn’t know there was an employee benefits handbook?
Apparently.
Rita walked up. “You’re supposed to be in the shoes department,” she barked.
“I’m picking up go-backs,” I told her.
It was a total lie, but so what?
Grace grabbed two boxes of shoes she’d rung back into the store’s inventory and handed them to me. Is she cool or what?
Rita glared at me. I glared back as I walked away.
At least now I knew where I supposed to work today.
Hours that I was never going to get back passed as I stocked shelves, straightened up the department, and avoided waiting on all but two customers—a personal best for me. When my shift was close to ending—well, kind of close—I headed for the time clock.
The fabulous Mystique clutch had filled my head most of the afternoon. I absolutely had to have it, and the only way to get it—with an equally fabulous eighty percent discount—was to guarantee my continued employment with Holt’s and qualify for a transfer by winning the Employee of the Month award. I figured it might be a bit of a stretch for me, but I was confident I could handle it. I can rise to most any occasion when I have to. Really.
I bypassed the breakroom and went into the assistant store managers’ office. No one was there—whichever assistant manager was on duty was probably on the sales floor—so I went through the cabinet where the materials for the new-hire orientation were stored and grabbed an employee benefits handbook.
My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I checked the ID screen and saw another text message from Juanita, asking me again to call my mom. I’d intended to call her after my shift ended—really, I swear—so I accessed my contact list.
But I couldn’t quite bring myself to hit the button. Instead, I called Detective Shuman. With any luck, he and Madison had uncovered enough evidence to know I wasn’t involved with Asha’s death, making it easier for me to focus on whatever problem my mom was having.
“Please tell me you solved the murder,” I said when he answered.
Shuman chuckled. “And get you off the hook this quickly? Forget it. Madison is going to drag this out as long as possible.”
He’d said it in a joking way, but I was afraid he was right.
“That crackerjack partner of yours must have come up with all kinds of evidence by now,” I said. “Anything you’re willing to share?”
“Preliminary autopsy report indicates the victim was shot point-blank in the chest. A handgun. Thirty-eight,” Shuman said. “This was up close and personal. A murder. No question about it.”
“Any suspects?” I asked.
“Besides you?” Shuman chuckled again. “No, we’re still gathering evidence.”
He seemed to be in an awfully good mood for a homicide detective who was on duty. I guess some days were easier than others.
“What about Asha’s car?” I asked.
I hadn’t noticed Asha’s banged-up Chevy in the parking lot when I’d discovered her body. It was impossible to miss, but with everything that was happening at that moment, I hadn’t thought to look for it.
“We towed it in,” Shuman said. “The lab guys are going over it.”
He’d been so forthcoming, I wished I had some meaningful info to share. I went with what I had.
“I heard Asha quit Holt’s because she got a higher-paying job someplace else. She needed money,” I said. “Maybe she was involved with something illegal and that’s what got her killed.”
“Always a possibility,” Shuman agreed.
He didn’t say anything else so I figured that was all I was going to get from him today.
“Thanks for the update,” I said. “I’m asking questions. I’ll let you know if I hear anything else.”
“Not a good idea, Haley.”
Shuman switched to his cop voice. It was way hot, of course, but right now kind of frightening.
“Madison thinks you’ve involved somehow. You should stay as far away from this as you can,” he told me.
I didn’t say anything. I wouldn’t lie to Shuman, so I kept my mouth shut.
“I know you’re not going to do that,” he said. “Just be careful.”
“That I can do,” I said, and we ended the call.
I was about to access Juanita’s latest text message when the image of Liam flew into my head.
Oh, crap.
Liam was my sort-of boyfriend. I should have called him first.
Maybe I need to work on my sort-of girlfriend skills.
I accessed my contacts list while I paced across the office, and called Liam. His voicemail picked up so I left an aren’t-I-clever message.
Then Jack Bishop sprang into my thoughts and I realized he hadn’t called me today. I was more than a little relieved. I still wasn’t clear on exactly what had gone on last night, and no way did I want to face him until I remembered.
Since I was still on company time, I checked my texts and read Juanita’s message. This one was worded a little stronger, insisting that I call right away.
Okay, now I was kind of worried. Juanita seldom contacted me, but she’d reached out several times today. Maybe something terrible really had happened to Mom.
I called my parents’ house. Juanita answered right away.
“You have to come. Now,” she said before I could ask anything.
Juanita sounded mega-stressed, which, of course, caused me to be mega-stressed.
“Your mother is terribly upset.”
The possible death of a family member or close friend popped into my head.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Juanita said. “She won’t tell me.”
Or maybe it was a medical problem. Troubling test results or bad lab reports. Something she could only tell me, her oldest daughter.
“Her copy of Harper’s Bazaar magazine came two days ago,” Juanita said. “She hasn’t opened it yet.”
Oh my God, it was worse than I thought.
“I’ll be right there.”
* * *
I grew up in a small mansion in La Cañada Flintridge, a town near Pasadena that was set against the San Gabriel Mountains overlooking the Los Angeles basin, with my older brother, now a pilot in the Air Force, and my younger sister, who attended UCLA and worked as a model. Dad was an aerospace engineer.
My folks still lived there. The place had been left to my mother, along with a trust fund, by her grandmother. Just how my great-grandma—long dead before I came along—had acquired such wealth was a generations-old family secret.
Mom had wanted me, her first-born daughter, to follow in her footsteps down the runway to beauty queen fame. I’d endured years of dance, modeling, singing, and nearly every other imaginable lessons—with Mom coaching me while she struggled to find some tiny kernel of actual talent in me.
Since I carried only fifty percent of her beauty queen genes—and most of them were recessive—things hadn’t gone well. It didn’t help that I hadn’t really liked any of that stuff. Mom finally admitted defeat when, at age nine, I set the den curtains ablaze attempting to twirl fire batons.
By then, my younger sister, a nearly perfect genetic copy of our mother, began to display great promise in filling Mom’s five-inch pumps. So that was that. She was in. I was out.
When I’d left Holt’s, I’d hit the Starbucks drive-through and gulped down a Frappuccino, fortifying myself for whatever the heck was going on with Mom, and headed east on the 210. By the time I took the exit, my chocolate-coffee-caffeine-infused brain had conjured up every possible horrific thing that could have befallen Mom.
I drove up the winding road and
pulled to a stop in the circular driveway, relieved that the house was still standing and the worst-case scenario I’d imagined—a serial bomber bent on destroying the homes of former beauty pageant winners—hadn’t happened. Juanita must have been watching for me because she opened the front door before I even got out of the car.
“She’s in the media room,” she said, waving me toward the rear of the house with both hands, like a ground crew member marshaling a passenger jet away from the terminal.
I walked deeper into the house, to the spot Mom had recently redecorated and dubbed the media room, a large space with a giant TV, comfy recliners and sofas, and a crank-it-up-even-if-it-makes-us-deaf sound system. She’d finished the room off with framed posters of classic movies and TV shows, and artistically rendered film reels, cameras, and whatever you called those black and white boards they snapped before a scene was shot.
The TV was off, the lights were low, the room was silent.
I didn’t know why Mom was in that particular room. I doubted it was to catch up on the news.
She was holding a glass of wine and staring at a Back to the Future movie poster. My mom was tall—like me—with dark hair—like me—and stunning beautiful—totally unlike me; I was merely pretty, as I’d overheard her say many times.
She was dressed in a Zac Posen sheath, four-inch Louboutins, perfectly coordinated accessories, with full-on hair and makeup—just your average housewife at home on a weekday afternoon.
“Mom?”
A few seconds passed before she turned away from Marty McFly and the DeLorean, and spotted me. Immediately, she straightened into her pageant stance and her well-practiced I’m-so-pleased-to-see-you expression—wide eyes, smile with narrowly parted lips, head tilted slightly to the left.
“Haley, what a nice surprise,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
Mom seemed normal. She looked and sounded as she most always did. I couldn’t imagine why Juanita had thought something was terribly wrong—despite Mom’s avoidance of her newly arrived Harper’s Bazaar magazine.
I was slightly miffed that I’d been so worried and rushed over here, apparently for nothing.
Pocketbooks and Pistols Page 4
