Pocketbooks and Pistols

by Dorothy Howell

  “Wrong hot guy,” she said. “Not the cop hot guy, the other hot guy.”

  It took me a few seconds to remember that Bella had asked me if I was working with Jack on Asha’s murder, in the hope that he would come into the store.

  “Still, he’s a good-looking man,” she said, her gaze lingering in the direction Shuman had gone. “Perked up my day considerably.”

  Really, he’d perked up mine, too—except for the whole murder discussion, of course.

  “Now, we’ve got to get the other hot guy in here.” Bella leaned closer and lowered her voice. “I’ve been in stealth mode. Got some intel.”

  I hadn’t really expected Bella to come up with anything, but I rolled with it.

  “You need to go talk to Grace,” she said. “Something went down between Asha and a customer the day before she got killed.”

  “Here? In the store?”

  Bella nodded. “Grace said it got real ugly, real quick. An argument. She said it looked like they were going to throw down, then the woman walked off.”

  My senses jumped to high alert. Could this woman have been the wife of the man Asha was reportedly having the affair with?

  “I’ll check it out,” I said. “Thanks.”

  I abandoned all pretense of working and went to the customer service booth. Grace was inside, at the inventory computer, looking up stock numbers for the bundle of returned dresses and skirts on the counter next to her. She dropped what she was doing and walked over.

  I’d known Grace for a long time so there was no reason to finesse the topic with her. I came right to the point.

  “I heard you saw Asha in the store the day before she died,” I said. “Some sort of confrontation with a customer?”

  “It was weird,” Grace said. “One minute I was waiting on this woman, and the next she was in a shouting match with Asha.”

  “What about?”

  “I couldn’t tell, exactly. She’d already left my booth and, somehow, they saw each other right there by the T-shirts,” she said and nodded to the display shelves in the women’s clothing department. “It was something about Asha having the nerve to show her face here. The whole thing was pretty intense.”

  My this-is-a-major-clue antenna shot up.

  “I don’t suppose you remember the customer’s name?” I asked.

  “No, but she returned pajamas, those neon orange and yellow ones we got in right before Christmas, remember? Everybody’s been returning those things,” Grace said. “She didn’t have a receipt, but she’d paid for them with her Holt’s credit card, so I credited her account.”

  “Her info’s in the computer,” I realized.

  I punched the code into the cypher lock on the customer service booth’s door and let myself inside.

  “So what’s going on? You think this is connected to Asha’s murder?” Grace asked as we walked to the inventory computer.

  Suddenly I felt just like Shuman—which was way cool—reluctant to speculate or commit to anything.

  “The timing is suspicious,” I said.

  “Cool.”

  Grace tapped on the keyboard and scrolled through several screens.

  “That’s her,” she said. “Valerie Roderick.”

  I pulled out my cell phone and snapped a photo of the transaction.

  “I’ll let you know if I see her in the store again,” Grace offered.

  “Great. Thanks,” I said.

  I left the customer service booth. No way could I go back to the juniors’ department right now. I pushed through the double doors into the stockroom.

  Aside from the store’s canned music track, it was quiet back here. The truck team had already come and gone. Boxes of new merchandise—baby clothes—were stacked in the receiving area. Some of them were open already, so I knew that the sales clerks who were stocking the department would return soon for another load. I dashed up the big concrete staircase to the stockroom’s second floor and wound through the shelves to the lingerie section located in the back.

  The info I’d gotten from Grace was basic stuff—Valerie Roderick’s home address, phone number, and Holt’s credit card info. I needed to find out if she was, in fact, the wife of the convenience store owner who was reportedly having the affair with Asha.

  Of course, I could have simply called Shuman and asked him. But he was with Detective Madison canvassing the shopping center so, unless I just happened to catch him at the perfect moment, it was unlikely he could blurt out the info I needed.

  Besides, I wanted to get this lead on my own, check it out, and deliver the info to Shuman fully formed and workable if I came up with anything.

  And, of course, it never hurt to remind Shuman how cool I could be.

  I Googled Valerie’s name and followed a series of links that led me to her photo, confirmed her home address—it’s really scary what strangers can find out about you on the Internet—and the shop she owned named Valerie’s Vintage. It was a clothing store located not far from Holt’s, near the mall.

  The name of her shop was familiar, even though I wasn’t into vintage clothing. I’d probably seen the place, since I was at the mall so often, but something else was going on with it.

  Then it hit me.

  I scrolled through my phone to Asha’s résumé. She’d worked at Valerie’s Vintage last summer.

  Coincidence?

  No way.

  CHAPTER 11

  By the time my four-hour shift ended, I was certain Detectives Shuman and Madison had finished canvassing the shopping center and talking to possible witnesses, and were gone. Now it was my turn.

  I headed for the convenience store located at the opposite end of the center. Not much seemed to be happening there today. The parking lot at this end of the center wasn’t even half full.

  Most of the businesses had big signs in their windows advertising their January clearance sales. The craft store had filled two sets of rolling display shelves with Christmas wrapping paper, bows, and tags, positioned them on the sidewalk near their entrance, and marked everything down fifty percent. The mail center offered BOGO deals on shipping boxes that they’d stacked near their door. The furniture store wasn’t offering discounts on anything—which proved the place was a drug front, if you ask me. Delightful aromas—though total opposites—drifted out of Cakes By Carrie and the cigar store.

  As I walked past the craft store I caught sight of Carrie inside, talking to an older woman behind the counter. She was short and thin, with fried-out blond hair in the same style she’d probably been wearing since tenth grade. I’d never seen her before, but I seldom came to any of the shops in the Holt’s center.

  Carrie glanced out the door at that moment and we made eye contact. I started to give her a little wave, but she jerked away, leaned in, and said something to the woman, who then threw me a look and turned back to Carrie.

  Oh my God, they were talking about me—and not in a nice way. How much more obvious could they be?

  Carrie was probably telling the woman how I’d upset her with the news of Asha’s death.

  No way did I want to get involved with that whole thing again.

  I kept walking.

  A feeble little bell sounded when I entered the convenience store. The place was packed with all sorts of snacks, some staples, and a few household products. Refrigerator cases ran along the back wall. The front counter was near the entrance, backed by shelves of cigarettes.

  I needed to find out what was up with Asha and the affair she’d had with the store’s owner. Of course, Shuman and Madison had been here only a few hours ago and had covered the same ground. I figured that could work to my advantage—especially when I saw that the cashier on duty was considerably younger than me. She was short and slim with tats on both arms, a nose ring, an eyebrow piercing, and had gothed herself out in head-to-toe black.

  I browsed through the candy section—just so I’d look like an actual customer, of course, like all the great undercover operatives—while the only
other two people in the store paid for their sodas and left. Grabbing a Snickers bar, I went to the counter.

  “Oh my God, Raine,” I said, reading her name tag. “Can you believe what’s going on in this place now? The cops were just in Holt’s asking all kinds of questions. Were they in here?”

  She glanced at the Holt’s lanyard I’d left dangling around my neck and muttered, “Yeah,” as she scanned my Snickers.

  “So it’s true?” I asked, adding a little gasp. “The cops really think the guy who owns this place is involved in that girl’s murder?”

  Raine rolled her eyes. “Owen. He’s an idiot.”

  I managed to gasp again and said, “What? You don’t think he did it?”

  “Could have.” She pointed to the total on the cash register. “That will be a dollar fifteen.”

  “Oh my God. He was having an affair with the murdered girl, for reals?”

  “Yeah, going out back, saying he was having smoke,” Raine said. “Please. How stupid does he think I am?”

  The bell chimed over the door. A man walked into the store. He headed for the refrigerator cases in the back.

  “Yeah, that’s bad,” I said, and opened my handbag. “I mean, he was married, right?”

  “Francine.” Raine rolled her eyes again. “What a psycho. She’s always in and out of here.”

  “So she knew about the two of them?” I passed her a five.

  “Everybody knew,” she said, and handed back my change.

  “And that didn’t stop them?”

  “Like I said, Owen’s an idiot. And Asha? I don’t know what was up with her,” she said. “I just put in my hours and leave.”

  I dropped my change into my handbag and grabbed the Snickers.

  “Thanks,” I said, and left the store.

  I unwrapped the Snickers as I headed down the sidewalk.

  At least now I knew that Owen’s wife was named Francine, which meant she wasn’t the Holt’s customer Grace had seen arguing with Asha the day before she was killed. Still, there could be some sort of connection. Valerie Roderick and Asha wouldn’t have had a near smackdown at Holt’s for no reason.

  My cell phone buzzed. Liam’s name appeared on the ID screen. I got a pleasant little rush—and I hadn’t even bitten into my Snickers yet.

  “How’s your day going?” he asked, when I answered.

  Our relationship was too new for me to mention that I was looking for possible murder suspects, so I went with something that wouldn’t likely cause him to break up with me.

  “I just finished my shift at Holt’s,” I said.

  “And now you’re going shopping,” he said.

  Already, he knew me so well.

  “How about dinner on Saturday night?” Liam asked.

  I froze. Was this the dinner he’d mentioned when he’d come by L.A. Affairs? The special occasion for something he wanted to discuss? Oh my God, what could it be? Something wonderful, definitely. At least, I thought it would be something wonderful. Maybe I should downgrade it to something good. That way, I wouldn’t be disappointed. But I really liked wonderful better than good. Or should I—

  “Haley?”

  “I’m here,” I said. “Sure, dinner on Saturday night would be great. Where are we going?”

  He knew what I was thinking because he said, “Wear something dressy.”

  Instantly, I mentally shuffled through my entire closet. I had nothing appropriate for the occasion, of course.

  “How about seven?” he asked.

  “Sounds perfect,” I said.

  A funny little warmth glowed inside me as we ended the call. I started in on my Snickers just to keep the good feelings rolling.

  Now, of course, I had to completely rearrange my afternoon—which I was totally okay with.

  As I headed for my Honda parked outside of Holt’s, I dropped my planned visit to Valerie’s Vintage further down my mental to-do list and put buying a new dress for Saturday night with Liam at the top. I decided Nuovo would likely have the perfect dress for the occasion—plus, while I was there I could check on my Mystique clutch, which I knew would look awesome with whatever dress I picked out.

  Yet all of that could wait.

  First, I had to call Marcie and tell her everything.

  * * *

  I swung by my apartment and changed out of the dress-down-to-fit-in clothes I always wore at Holt’s and into dress-up-to-impress pants and sweater so I’d fit in at Nuovo. I’d left a message for Marcie earlier. She finally returned my call—really, having a job when major gossip was going down could be so inconvenient—as I left my apartment and headed for Nuovo.

  She was still at work but we discussed my upcoming evening with Liam from every possible angle—what we thought might happen, what should definitely happen, what could go wrong, what he might say, what I might say—all of which was, of course, total speculation. Still, it had to be done.

  We also covered exactly what type of dress I should buy—length, neckline, color—and how I should accessorize it—minimalistic or flashy—and style my hair—down or up-do. We agreed that the Mystique clutch was a major must-have, absolutely the only bag that could properly finish my look.

  “We were supposed to have them by now, weren’t we?” Marcie asked, as I pulled into a parking space down the block from Nuovo.

  “Something about a delay in the shipment,” I said, as I got out of my car. “I’ll find out what’s going on.”

  “Send me pictures of every dress you try on,” she said.

  “Of course,” I told her and ended our call as I headed down the sidewalk.

  The day was gorgeous, as most Southern California days were, even in January. The afternoon sun was bright and warm, the sky clear, the breeze almost nonexistent. Lots of shoppers were out—women mostly, a few couples, and some moms pushing baby strollers. This place was sure busier than the Holt’s shopping center had been.

  A sales clerk stood near the register when I walked into Nuovo. Our gazes crossed and, instead of giving me the usual our-favorite-customer-just-walked-in reception, she turned and ducked through the curtain that covered the door to the stockroom.

  Okay, that was weird.

  Still, I wasn’t going to let it bother me. Nothing was going to upset me right now. I had a big date coming up with a smoking-hot guy, I was buying a new dress and might possibly walk out of this store today with a look-at-me-and-be-jealous new handbag to carry for the occasion.

  I glanced around the sales floor but didn’t spot Chandra. It hit me then that the other clerk might have recognized me, known I was Chandra’s client, and gone into the stockroom to get her.

  Two other customers were in the store looking at the jeans. I headed for the racks of dresses. I found three right away—all short, black, and sleeveless, yet distinctly different in a way only women can discern—and headed for the dressing room.

  Voices from behind the curtained doorway caught my attention.

  “What are we going to do? She’s Chandra’s client.”

  I was sure it was the sales clerk who’d disappeared when she saw me walk in. She sounded worried.

  Not a good sign.

  “Damn it,” another woman—probably a sales clerk—replied. “Where is Chandra?”

  “I have no idea. She’s supposed to be here.”

  “Did she call?”

  “No. What about her client? What am I supposed to tell her?”

  I didn’t need x-ray vision to see there was still a problem with my Mystique clutch bag.

  “Hello?” I called, and managed to sound calm.

  The clerks fell silent and, a few seconds later, the one I’d seen when I walked in glided through the parted curtains wearing an if-I-look-like-everything-is-okay-it-really-will-be-okay smile.

  I wasn’t buying it.

  She spotted me and the dresses I was holding and said, “Hello, Ms. Randolph. It’s so nice to see you again.”

  Like she didn’t already know I was in the shop.


  I wasn’t buying that, either.

  “Chandra isn’t here today. I’m Kendal,” she said. “Please allow me to assist you. Are you ready to try on?”

  “What’s up with my Mystique?” I asked.

  “Oh, well, as I’m sure Chandra explained previously, there’s been a delay in our shipment.”

  I had to hand it to her, she said it as if this were just a minor situation, soon to be resolved, instead of the catastrophic disaster that I suspected it really was.

  Still, I remained calm.

  “What kind of a delay?” I asked. “Was it late from the manufacturer? Delivered to the wrong address? What?”

  “There’s no need for you to trouble yourself with the details, Ms. Randolph,” she said. “I assure you—”

  “Tell me.” I might have said that kind of loud.

  Kendra shifted uncomfortably, glanced back at the curtained stockroom doorway, then drew herself up and said, “Actually, our shipment of Mystique handbags was . . . lost.”

  “Lost?” I definitely said that kind of loud.

  Oh, crap.

  CHAPTER 12

  I probably should have stomped out of Nuovo in a full-blown snit-fit over the situation with my Mystique clutch, but come on, the dress I selected for my big date with Liam looked great on me and I got it at an eighty-percent discount.

  We all have our priorities.

  Even though Kendal had assured me that everything possible was being done to recover the lost shipment of Mystiques, I doubted a strike force was being assembled somewhere to locate a box of blue leather clutches embellished with peacock feathers.

  I stopped by my Honda and stretched the garment bag containing my new dress—black, sleeveless, plunging, short—across the back seat. I would have to tell Marcie about what had happened with our Mystiques, but not right now. She was at work and, really, nobody should receive that kind of news without family or friends nearby.

  My afternoon definitely needed a boost, so I locked my car and headed for the Starbucks located down the street. Even without the jolt of chocolate, sugar, and caffeine, my brain was spinning pretty fast, thinking about the missing shipment of Mystiques—and how I could still get one for Marcie and me.