Pocketbooks and Pistols

by Dorothy Howell

  “So what’s up?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” Mom insisted, and gestured with her wineglass. “I was just wandering through the house.”

  Note—she hadn’t wandered into the utility closet and grabbed a mop to help Juanita scrub the floors.

  “And I ended up in here . . . somehow,” Mom said, looking around as if seeing the room for the first time.

  Okay, that was weird.

  She widened her smile and pushed her chin up a notch. “I was thinking about the time machine in the movie. Going back, you know. Back to our past and, well, perhaps changing things.”

  Okay, that was really weird.

  “Not that I’d want anything changed in my life, of course,” Mom insisted and pushed a little harder on her smile. “I’ve had a magnificent life. So many wonderful things. You children . . .”

  She’d mentioned me and my brother and sister first?

  “And this beautiful home. Your father. Certainly your father. I’ve been blessed with so very many . . .”

  Mom blinked quickly and gulped hard. She sipped her wine.

  What the heck was going on? She was upset, something way beyond my-mascara-wand-is-clogged upset. Was she on the verge of tears?

  I was totally at a loss. I’d never seen her like this before.

  Even though we were at opposite ends of the personality scale, I had to hand it to Mom—at her core, she had grit.

  She’d been hardened by years on the pageant circuit. She’d endured hours of spray tanning, two-sided tape, and over-the-counter meds used for purposes the manufacturer never intended. She’d learned to control her emotions—surely even Mom had eventually grown weary of the what-kind-of-vegetable-would-you-be type questions—and had learned early on to hold a smile and clap enthusiastically while another contestant took the crown she knew should have been hers.

  “Mom? Mom, are you crying?” I walked closer.

  “No. No, of course not.” She turned her back to me and sniffed.

  “Yes, you are,” I insisted.

  Okay, now I felt like a total idiot and horrible daughter. But Mom was always so pulled together—in her own way, of course. What was I supposed to do?

  My first thought was to call someone to take over—which was bad of me, I know. But I’m not good at this sort of thing.

  Was my sister home? She was great in situations like this. And what about my dad? Could I call him to come home from work and jump in here? He’d married her. He was legally obligated, right?

  Yes, I could do those things, but Mom sniffed again and I knew this was all on me.

  And I knew I could handle it.

  “Mom?” I stepped in front of her. Tears pooled in her eyes. “Mom, tell me what’s wrong.”

  She met my gaze and, I suppose, she was deciding for herself whether I could handle it.

  “Tell me,” I said.

  She blinked back her tears and said, “Rumors have surfaced. Accusations have been made.”

  My thoughts scattered. Had Dad accused her of cheating? Had someone told Mom he had cheated on her?

  “I heard something from one of my friends,” Mom said. “You know, my standing luncheon with other pageant women.”

  Mom and a group of former pageant queens—whom I mentally referred to as a coven—met regularly to support ongoing beauty pageants, coach contestants, and give out advice.

  Knowing the rumor came from one of them, my thoughts flew in a different direction.

  Had somebody accused Mom of dyeing her hair with boxed color at home? Had they suggested she’d had work done?

  “You recall that I was in the Miss California Cupid pageant?” Mom asked.

  She’d been in dozens of pageants back before she’d met my dad. I didn’t know one from the other.

  “Sure,” I said.

  This was easier.

  “It was my first truly important pageant. I was only nineteen,” Mom said. “I took second place, but it got me noticed.”

  Oh, yeah. Now I remembered. It was early in her pageant career so, even though she’d come in second, she’d been thrilled.

  “With that attention, I was able to get the recognition and, well, the confidence I needed to keep entering pageants,” Mom said. “The Miss California Cupid contest was my stepping stone to national competitions.”

  Back before she’d married my dad and hung up her crown, Mom had been Miss California and third runner-up in the Miss America pageant.

  “What kind of rumors and accusations are circulating?” I asked.

  “It seems that someone with inside knowledge of the Miss California Cupid pageant during the year I competed is threatening to go public with allegations of wrongdoing,” Mom said. “A conflict of interest involving a contestant and one of the judges.”

  That was it? A conflict of interest? That’s what had Mom in tears?

  I didn’t get it.

  “This could ruin everything,” Mom said, and gulped down the last of her wine. “If a formal complaint is filed, the board of directors will have to take action. Crowns and titles will be stripped. The media, of course, will get involved.”

  Okay, I could imagine what bloggers and late-night talk show hosts would do with the situation.

  “Who’s making this claim?” I asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Who’s the judge?”

  She waved my question away and said, “If this comes to light, everyone will be making tawdry remarks—forever. This will never be lived down or forgotten.”

  Mom didn’t want the pageant that meant the most to her smeared by scandal. Even though I wasn’t exactly on board with the whole beauty pageant thing, I couldn’t stand by and do nothing to help.

  “I’ll check into it,” I told her.

  “You’ll—you’ll what?”

  “I’ll ask around,” I said.

  “No.”

  “I can find out who’s involved.”

  Mom shook her head. “No. No, you mustn’t.”

  She didn’t know I’d been involved with a number of murder investigations and worked with a homicide detective and a private investigator.

  “I can do this,” I told her. “I know people who can help.”

  “I forbid it,” she said, switching to her mom voice.

  “But, Mom—”

  She snapped into her pageant stance and said, “I refuse to be involved in this distasteful affair in any fashion. Certainly, no more attention should be drawn to it by pursuing the matter.”

  She had a point. The whole thing might lose steam and disappear if nobody was giving it any energy.

  “Well, if you’re sure,” I said.

  “I’m very sure.” Mom looked relieved. “The less said, the better. And, please, don’t mention this to anyone.”

  Since I didn’t travel in pageant circles, I knew no one who’d want to know—or would have the least bit of interest in—this particular rumor.

  “No problem,” I said.

  On my way out, I stopped by the kitchen and assured Juanita nothing serious was going on with Mom, then got in my Honda and headed for the closest Starbucks. Yes, I’d just had a Frappie on the drive over but, really, can you have too much chocolate and caffeine?

  As I sat in the drive-through digging in my purse for my wallet, I pulled out the Holt’s employee benefits handbook I’d grabbed from the assistant store managers’ office earlier. The line stretched eight cars deep so I had some time to kill. I flipped to the chapter that detailed the Employee of the Month info.

  Wow, this was a long chapter.

  Under normal circumstances, being Employee of the Anything wasn’t something I would aspire to. But it was a small price to pay to keep my discount at Nuovo.

  The stunning Mystique clutch bag bloomed in my head. Yes, definitely worth it and, really, how hard could it be?

  The line moved forward. I inched up a bit.

  I skimmed the list of requirements and—oh my God. Oh my God.

  Total p
anic mode swept over me.

  To get the Employee of the Month award I’d have to develop a minimum of twenty credit card applications and ring up over five grand in sales. I’d have to sell two hundred dollars’ worth of gift cards. That meant I’d have to work the checkout line and talk to the customers—actually provide service.

  Plus, I couldn’t be late for my shift one single time, and I would have to get a recommendation from the Rita, the cashiers’ supervisor.

  Oh, crap.

  A car honked behind me. I pulled forward.

  Jeez, employees at Holt’s accomplished all of this?

  I ordered my Frappie and slumped down in my seat.

  How would I pull this off? Yeah, okay, I could do those things for a day—maybe—but for several weeks? And, surely, I wasn’t the only person who’d thought of this. Everyone in the store would be vying for the award to ensure a transfer to another store—which meant I’d have to up my game considerably and do even more actual work.

  I drove up to the window, paid, and grabbed my Frappuccino. Gulping it down, I pulled away, forcing my brain to think harder. There had to be a way to get around this. There had to be.

  Then it hit me.

  If Detectives Shuman and Madison solved Asha’s murder before the story gained any traction, the corporate office would have to scrap their plan to close the store.

  Then something else hit me.

  I didn’t have to wait for Shuman and Madison. I could solve Asha’s murder.

  I hopped up and down and did a little dance in my seat as I drove away.

  Oh my God, this was a brilliant idea—and it would be a heck of a lot easier than earning the Employee of the Month award.

  CHAPTER 6

  “I’m so very sorry, Ms. Randolph, but your Mystique bags haven’t yet arrived.”

  I was on my cell phone with Chandra, my too-perfect-to-be-human personal shopper at Nuovo, as I inched toward the time clock along with the other Holt’s employees reporting for our morning shift. My day already needed a boost. This news didn’t help.

  “No phones on the sales floor,” Rita squawked from her if-only-this-position-came-with-a-gun stance by the whiteboard.

  “Can you give me a firm date when they will arrive?” I asked.

  “That means you, Princess.”

  “Your request is at the very top of our list,” Chandra said. “Please rest assured we’re giving this situation our utmost attention. You’ll be the first person notified of the arrival of the shipment, Ms. Randolph.”

  She’d said it so nicely, all I could do was thank her.

  I hate it when that happens.

  From the corner of my eye I saw Rita mad-dogging me, so I kept the phone to my ear pretending I was talking, and glared right back until I punched in—which was kind of bad of me, I know, but it sure as heck gave my morning a boost.

  With Rita still glaring, I went to my locker and pretended to put my cell phone into my handbag, but really slid it into the pocket of my jeans—no way could I be without my phone for my entire shift—and left the breakroom.

  I’d hoped Nuovo would tell me my Mystique bags were ready for pickup soon. Losing my employee discount if Holt’s closed before the bags arrived was a real concern—as any true shopper would know. Of course, I didn’t intend to just stand around and hope for the best, when finding Asha’s murderer would solve the problem.

  I hadn’t heard from Detective Shuman with any more information about the investigation. I didn’t have to stand around and hope for the best from him, either. I knew where I could find what I needed to get started.

  Instead of heading onto the sales floor, I went to the assistant store managers’ office. Nobody was inside, as usual—jeez, maybe I should apply for the position since, apparently, you never had to be in there doing any work. The file cabinet beside the desk was unlocked so I went through the drawers until I found Asha’s personnel file.

  I didn’t want to hang around in case somebody wandered in, so I pulled out my cell phone and snapped pictures of Asha’s employment application, her résumé, and the new hire documents she’d completed during orientation.

  I knew she hadn’t worked at Holt’s for long, so I checked the dates. She’d been hired just before Thanksgiving, in time for the Christmas shopping rush, and had left in mid-December; no reason for her departure was given. She’d only lasted about three weeks—not that I blamed her, of course.

  Still, I wondered why Asha hadn’t been here for the entire Christmas season. Holt’s was desperate for sales clerks at that time of year so I figured she must have done something horrendous to get fired. Sandy had mentioned she’d quit for a better-paying job. Maybe that’s all there was to it.

  I slid Asha’s personnel folder back into the cabinet, closed the drawer, and headed for the—well, heck, I’d forgotten to check the schedule by the time clock and see where I was supposed to work this morning. I slipped into the breakroom. Bella was there, standing in front of the vending machine.

  She pointed to the whiteboard, where her name was written, and said, “I was two minutes late—two minutes—and Rita wrote me up.”

  “I hate her.”

  “Damn straight.” Bella ripped open the bag of chips she’d just gotten from the vending machine and sat down at a table. “So I decided, since I already got written up I may as well enjoy it.”

  “Makes sense,” I told her.

  In fact, it made a lot of sense. I sat down across from her.

  “Have you heard anything else about the store closing?” Bella asked.

  “I talked to Jeanette. It could definitely happen,” I said. “I can’t stop wondering why Asha was out back by the loading dock.”

  “Beats me,” Bella said, munching on her chips.

  “Do you remember seeing her in the store after she quit?” I asked.

  I didn’t recall ever seeing her, but it was my personal customer service policy to avoid eye contact with anyone I encountered on the sales floor, so even if she’d been here I might have missed her.

  “She probably came back to shop for something,” Bella said and shrugged. “Most everybody comes back, sooner or later. The stuff here is pretty cheap, and Asha didn’t seem like she was exactly raking in the cash.”

  “I’ll ask around,” I said.

  Bella paused, a chip halfway to her lips. “You’re sticking your nose into this because of that hot PI, aren’t you? What’s his name? Jack. Yeah, him.”

  The mention of Jack’s name sent a wave of—of—well, something through me. I didn’t know how I’d face him when I still couldn’t recall exactly what had happened the other night. Thank God I hadn’t heard from him.

  “Jack isn’t involved in Asha’s murder investigation,” I told Bella.

  “Get him involved,” Bella insisted. “He’s one fine-looking man. He needs to come into the store, make my day better.”

  “If you come up with any information about Asha, maybe he will,” I said.

  “Hot damn. I’m on the case.”

  Bella rushed out of the breakroom. I erased her name from the whiteboard and followed her out.

  * * *

  It was a Louis Vuitton afternoon. Definitely a Louis Vuitton afternoon.

  When my shift ended at Holt’s, I swung by my apartment and morphed into Event Planner Extraordinaire—my idea of a superhero in designer fashions—by changing into one of my fabulous Chanel business suits, and headed for L.A. Affairs. Business was slow this month—especially for me, since I’d refused to plan any romantic Valentine’s Day celebrations for anyone who wasn’t me—so the planners took turns reporting to the office to handle any new clients who might come in and, of course, check on our upcoming events.

  The L.A. Affairs office was located at the intersection of Sepulveda and Ventura in Sherman Oaks, one of L.A.’s many upscale areas. Everyone dressed in fabulous clothes and carried equally fabulous handbags to impress our well-to-do clientele—which I was totally on board with.

&n
bsp; I pulled into the parking garage, took the elevator up to the third floor, and walked into the office. Mindy, our receptionist, was at her desk. She was fortyish, round in places that should have been flat, and had blond hair that, for some reason, she’d recently permed.

  She looked like a tumbleweed had crash landed on her head.

  “Are you ready to party?” she chanted.

  That ridiculous slogan was meant for clients but, for some reason, I was continually subjected to it.

  “I work here,” I told her for what seemed like whatever-comes-after-a-trillion times.

  “Oh, yes. You’re Haley, aren’t you?” Mindy said, nodding. “Yes, that’s who you are. Haley.”

  “Yes, I’m Haley. I work here. So you don’t have to keep repeating that slogan every time you see me.”

  “Oh. Okay. I understand,” Mindy said. “Got it.”

  “Good,” I said, and walked away.

  “Have a nice afternoon, Hannah,” Mindy called.

  Good grief.

  One of the many awesome things about L.A. Affairs was that I had my own private office. It was done in neutrals with splashes of blue and yellow, and had a huge window that overlooked the Galleria, a great shopping center, across the street. I stowed my handbag in the bottom drawer of my desk and, of course, headed for the breakroom.

  I helped myself to coffee from the big pot that was always brewing, and finished it off with a generous splash of French vanilla creamer and too-numerous-to-count packets of sugar. Just as I was eyeing the box of doughnuts on the counter and deciding between chocolate-covered and chocolate-covered-with-sprinkles—really, it was a big decision—my L.A. Affairs BFF walked in.

  Kayla was about my age, with dark hair and lots of curves. She had on a black Michael Kors suit, and totally rocked it.

  “Thank God you’re here,” Kayla said, helping herself to coffee. “This place has been like a morgue all week.”

  “No way,” I said. “What have I missed?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No, really. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. Really.”

  Okay, that was weird.

  “There must be something,” I said. “Rumors, gossip?”

  “None of that,” she said.