Pocketbooks and Pistols

by Dorothy Howell

  It looked like it was old enough to vote.

  “Yes, Haley, what is it?” she asked.

  It took everything I had, but I managed not to shield my eyes as I walked up to her desk.

  “Are you doing okay?” I asked, and actually sounded concerned, not just nosy. “You’ve looked kind of stressed lately.”

  Jeanette sighed and sank into her desk chair. She hadn’t invited me to join her, but I sat down anyway. I mean, really, you have to push a little if you want to hear the good stuff.

  “All the owners of the adjoining shops came to see me,” Jeanette said. “They’re very unhappy about our latest situation.”

  I was sure “situation” was code for “murder.”

  “Sales are down. Business is off. Customers are staying away in droves,” she went on.

  “Even here?” I asked.

  “We’re definitely feeling the effects,” Jeanette admitted.

  I couldn’t help but think the effect she was most concerned about was the impact on her quarterly bonus.

  “Things are much worse for the smaller businesses,” Jeanette said. “Most of them are barely getting by.”

  “So why did the owners come to you?”

  “They think I’m to blame for their problems because the body was discovered here.”

  Jeanette cut her gaze to me and I got a definite this-is-really- your-fault vibe.

  I decided it was better not to say anything.

  “The police haven’t made any headway in finding Asha’s murderer. Those investigative journalists are coming,” Jeanette went on. “If this thing isn’t cleared up soon, giving the reporters something positive to say, the whole shopping center could go down.”

  The content of a television broadcast and the police finding a killer quickly were both highly unreliable things on which to pin the future of the entire shopping center.

  “There must be something else that can be done,” I said.

  “The other business owners expect Holt’s to make things right,” Jeanette said.

  “How?”

  “Corporate is working on some ideas.”

  I didn’t feel encouraged.

  And I was definitely going to have to step up my efforts to find Asha’s killer.

  CHAPTER 16

  It was a Louis Vuitton day. Definitely a Louis Vuitton day. Was there a better way to start a Monday morning?

  I sat at my desk in my office at L.A. Affairs, dressed in one of my fabulous business suits—black, with carefully selected take-me-seriously yet look-at-me-I-have-great-style accessories.

  Since I was coming in only a few days each week until things picked up, I had a number of clients, vendors, and venues to check on. Likely there would be a few fires to extinguish, wrinkles to iron out, and problems to get a jump on. So the first thing I did—after catching up on the office gossip and getting coffee in the breakroom, of course—was call Marcie.

  She’d been occupied with a family function over the weekend—Marcie had a great family—so I’d texted her with only the basics of my dinner with Liam on Saturday night. I’d left out the part about seeing Jack at the restaurant. Even though Marcie and I were the best besties ever, I still couldn’t bring myself to tell her what had happened with him.

  “A quaint B-and-B in the mountains,” Marcie said. “I had no idea Liam could be so romantic.”

  “Me either,” I admitted.

  Liam had definitely impressed me with his getaway plans. Ty had taken me to super-nice places, including Europe, but all of our trips had revolved around business. He’d been gone a lot, leaving me to occupy myself, and had been distracted by problems that had to be dealt with immediately—

  I sat forward in my desk chair. Why was I thinking about Ty? I didn’t want to think about him. In fact, I’d decided not to think about him. What was the matter with me?

  “When are you going?” Marcie asked, thankfully bringing me back to our conversation.

  “Weekend after next,” I said.

  “Oh my God, you have to go shopping soon,” Marcie told me.

  While I’d displayed a woeful lack of natural talent during the singing, dancing, and modeling lessons Mom had subjected me to as a child, I’d demonstrated some mad skills during skiing and ice-skating sessions. The closet in my second bedroom was packed with all the necessary winter gear and equipment—which was no reason not to go shopping for something new.

  “I need boots, definitely some boots,” I said. “And sweaters.”

  “We’ll check out Nordstrom,” Marcie said. “They’re having a sale on coats. You should think about getting a new coat.”

  I didn’t have to think about it; I was getting one.

  “We’ll go one night this week,” Marcie said.

  “I’ll text you,” I promised, and we ended the call.

  Since I’d just had a mani and pedi a few days ago, I didn’t need to book a spa service. I had nothing Facebook-worthy to post. I’d already checked my bank account and Visa card twice this morning. All of which meant there was nothing left to do but get to work.

  I spent the morning talking with venues and vendors for my clients’ upcoming events, making sure everything I’d already put into place was moving forward as expected. Then I contacted each client—or their personal assistant—and let them know I was on top of everything, and followed that up with an email to Priscilla, the office manager, informing her of pretty much the same thing.

  Yes, I’m actually good at this job.

  By lunchtime I’d done everything that required my attention—at L.A. Affairs, anyway. I left the office, got my car from the parking garage, and headed for Studio City.

  This thing with Mom and the Miss California Cupid beauty contest was weird—beyond weird, really. I still didn’t get why she was upset about the gossip that was circulating, to the point that she was talking about leaving the country.

  Of course, nobody wanted their accomplishments to be tarnished, and Mom had a special place in her heart for that particular pageant. But she’d placed second. It wasn’t like she’d been declared the winner and would lose a first-place crown if an investigation resulted in a full-blown shake-up.

  This was hardly the first time I hadn’t really understood what was going on with Mom.

  I turned into the shopping center near Ventura Boulevard, parked, and went inside the travel agency where I’d picked up Mom’s itinerary. I needed to get a handle on this thing, and I figured a good place to start was with her former pageant buddy, Courtney.

  The office was quiet. Two of the agents were on the phone, another had an elderly couple seated in front of her desk.

  Courtney spotted me, smiled, and waved me back.

  “What a nice surprise,” she said, shuffling some papers to the side. “I wasn’t expecting you, Haley.”

  “I just need a minute of your time,” I told her and dropped into the chair in front of her desk.

  “Sure, no problem. Did Caroline have a question about the itinerary? She could have—” Courtney stopped and shook her head, looking totally mystified. “I can’t get over how much you remind me of your mother—though not as much as your sister does, of course.”

  Like I hadn’t heard that at every family gathering, holiday, and special occasion, from every family member, old friend, and stranger on the street since the day Mom and Dad brought my sister home from the hospital?

  “It’s uncanny, really,” Courtney said, her gaze searching every angle and curve of my face.

  I definitely had to change the subject.

  “Were you in the Miss California Cupid pageant with Mom?” I asked.

  “No, I met Caroline the year after that,” Courtney said.

  She seemed to get lost in pageant thoughts for a minute, then snapped out of it and gasped.

  “Oh, dear, are you talking about those nasty rumors that are going around?” She made a decidedly un-pageant-like face. “Personally, I don’t involve myself in that kind of thing. I don’t re
ad about it or talk about it, but I do, of course, hear about it from time to time. I can’t believe the things people are dredging up these days, about something that happened a long time ago.”

  “Why would anybody care about it after all these years?” I asked.

  “Well, for one thing, we former beauty queens are all very close. Pageants are very bonding experiences, you know,” Courtney said. “So, of course, reputations are at stake, especially since the Miss California Cupid contest was a local pageant.”

  Mom involved herself in all sorts of community and charity events. I could see that she wouldn’t want to be associated with questionable conduct right here in her own backyard.

  “No one wants to be part of a contested crowning. It looks bad on everybody,” Courtney said.

  “Do you think the rumors going around are actually true?” I asked. “There was some sort of conflict of interest going on with one of the judges?”

  She leaned closer and lowered her voice. I, of course, leaned in too.

  “These things can be very political. Favors are often exchanged,” she whispered. “It’s not right and it’s not fair, but it’s true.”

  I couldn’t disagree.

  “Any idea what this conflict of interest was about?” I asked. “Or who the judge was?”

  Courtney shook her head. “Like I said, I don’t involve myself in the details of this sort of thing. Too negative. Life’s too short.”

  I couldn’t disagree with that, either.

  But I did wish Mom felt that way, too.

  “Thanks for your time,” I said and rose from my chair.

  “No problem,” she told me. “And tell Caroline to call me. We need to have lunch.”

  “I will,” I said, and left.

  I got in my Honda, wishing that Courtney had given me a solid lead or at least some insider’s info about this conflict of interest involving the pageant. Since that hadn’t happened, I was going to have to find it the old-fashioned way—you know, actually work at it.

  But right now I had a more pressing matter to look into—Asha’s murder investigation.

  According to the last conversation I’d had with Jeanette, the fate of the entire shopping center rested on uncovering Asha’s killer. I’d come up with a number of suspects, and Detective Shuman had provided an is-this-weird-or-what coincidence with Dena Gerber’s supposed accidental shooting of her husband. I’d also discovered more than one motive for Asha’s murder.

  Lots of puzzle pieces, but none of them were coming together to form a complete picture yet.

  I pulled out my cell phone and accessed the Exposer website. The site was so mean-spirited, so hurtful, so destructive, I couldn’t help thinking it had to be the jumping-off point for Asha’s murder.

  Scrolling through her posts over the past year or so, I was hit again with the sheer number of possible suspects. It wasn’t just the owners who likely had it in for Asha, but their spouses, families, employees, and suppliers as well. A failed business affected lots of other businesses. Checking out all of those people was more than I could manage—at least in time to solve the murder before those investigative journals showed up at Holt’s to do their story.

  Then I realized there was a work-around I could try.

  I clicked on the home page of the Exposer site and looked at the advertisements. The biggest one was a top banner from an auto repair shop, a place called Wright’s Auto Works.

  It still made no sense to me why any business would put its ad on this kind of site. Maybe if I found out more about the place and its owner, I could make some headway on the investigation.

  Yeah, okay, it was a thin lead, but the only viable one I had to work on at the moment.

  I clicked on the ad, got the address from the website, punched it into my GPS, and took off.

  * * *

  Wright’s Auto Works was off the 134 on San Fernando Road in Glendale, set amid a stretch of similar businesses—a tire store, used car lots, an upholstery shop. Their parking lot was almost full when I pulled in. The garage had two bays, both of them with their doors up and cars on the racks. Several men dressed in Dickies work clothing, a standard uniform of dark trousers and a pale blue shirt with a name patch over the pocket, were busy in the bays.

  I spotted a guy holding a clipboard and walked over.

  His name was George, according to his shirt, and, according to the website, he was the owner. Even without the name tag I would have known he was running the place.

  George was on the high side of forty, slightly overweight, balding, with the pinched expression and the sheen of forehead sweat of a stressed-out guy who had a lot to lose—and was, evidently, losing it.

  “Hi,” I said, favoring him with my I’m-really-nice-so-feel-free-to-tell-me-everything-I-want-to-know smile.

  George didn’t smile back. He glanced at his watch, his clipboard, then my Honda.

  “What does your car need?” he asked.

  “Actually, I wanted to chat with you about your advertising,” I said.

  He gave my awesome business suit and Louis Vuitton satchel the once-over, then shook his head.

  “I’m not interested in buying any more advertising,” he told me and walked away toward the garage bays.

  I did look pretty darn professional. I could see why he’d mistaken me for a sales person.

  “I’m here about your ad on the Exposer website,” I said.

  George froze, then spun around. His face turned beet red, his nostrils flared, and he bared his teeth.

  Oh, crap.

  “Get the hell off of my lot!” he screamed.

  Oh my God, what was going on?

  “I just wanted to ask you—”

  “Go!”

  What was wrong with this guy?

  He took a step toward me.

  I backed up.

  “Don’t you ever come back here again!” he yelled.

  A mechanic walked toward us carrying a big wrench. Whether he intended to come after me, or George, I didn’t know.

  I wasn’t about to hang around and find out.

  I jumped in my Honda and sped away.

  CHAPTER 17

  I was totally rattled when I left Wright’s Auto Works. Luckily, I found a Starbucks right away and calmed myself with a massive infusion of chocolate, sugar, and caffeine, as I headed north on the 5.

  What the heck had come over George? Why had he become so enraged when I’d mentioned the Exposer site? It wasn’t like Asha had given him a bad review; plus, he’d actually forked some serious cash to advertise with her.

  His actions were so out there, so out of proportion, I figured something major was going on. I needed to find out what it was, but I definitely needed backup to go there again.

  The image of Jack Bishop sprang into my mind. He’d be perfect to go with me, of course, but I was still kind of miffed with him over what had happened between us. I mean, really, he hadn’t contacted me since our night together, and he’d actually had the nerve to tell me women usually thanked him?

  Still, I had to find out what was up with Wright’s Auto Works, and Jack was the guy to handle it. Besides, this was business. Just business. Nothing personal.

  I called Jack as I transitioned onto the 14. The call went to voicemail so I left a message. Hopefully, I’d hear from him soon.

  My evening shift at Holt’s was looming, so I hit the Carl’s Jr. drive-through, then stopped by my apartment and changed into jeans and a sweater. I couldn’t bring myself to take my Louis Vuitton satchel into Holt’s, of all places, so I swapped it for a Betsey Johnson and headed out.

  The store was kind of quiet when I walked in, not unusual for a Monday night. Still, I couldn’t get my conversation with Jeanette, and her concern that business had slowed for everyone in the shopping center, out of my head. I really hoped the corporate office would come up with something that would restore faith in the businesses and bring customers back.

  “Oh, Haley, I’m glad you’re here. Look at th
is,” Sandy called, as I walked into the breakroom.

  She was in line at the time clock, bouncing on her toes and waving her cell phone. I stowed my handbag in my locker and got in line next to her.

  “I need your opinion. What do you think?” she asked. “Do you like this one better? I can’t decide.”

  I looked at the selfie on her phone, another shot of her in a dressing room somewhere, this time wearing a black cocktail dress.

  “This is for your birthday dinner?” I asked. “What about the pink maxi you’d picked out? I liked that one on you.”

  It was definitely Sandy, much more so than this cocktail dress.

  “I think it makes me look too young,” she fretted, and scrolled through the photos to present me with the one of her in the pink maxi. “See? I look young, don’t I?”

  “You are young,” I pointed out.

  “Yes, I know, but I don’t want to look young—not too young,” Sandy insisted. “Which one do you think he’ll like best?”

  Really, I couldn’t have cared less which dress her idiot boyfriend might like best, but no way would I tell Sandy that. She was super excited about her birthday dinner, and I didn’t want to ruin it for her.

  “He’ll love you in either one,” I told her.

  A big, dreamy smile bloomed on her face. “You’re right. He will. He’s so sweet like that.”

  “Which one do you like best?” I asked.

  She flipped between the photos for a moment, then said, “The pink one. It’s my favorite.”

  “Then go with that one,” I told her.

  The line moved forward and we clocked in. On the schedule above the time clock, I saw that I was assigned to the housewares department tonight while Sandy was needed in juniors. It looked like I had an evening of folding dishtowels and aligning place mats ahead of me.

  “Thanks, Haley,” Sandy called as we left the breakroom.

  I made my way to housewares at the back of the store. Bella was already there unloading a U-boat of new merchandise, dozens of tablecloths and napkins in Barney purple and Big Bird yellow.