Jeez, what else could I say?
I waved, and headed for my car.
As I slid into the driver’s seat, my cell phone buzzed. I checked the caller ID screen.
Amber. Ty’s personal assistant. Why was she calling?
My thoughts scattered—but not in a good way.
Was Ty back? Was he here, right here in L.A., and had gone to work at the Holt’s corporate office downtown?
Maybe that wasn’t it. Maybe Amber had found out he was never coming back—ever.
Or—oh my God—what if she was calling to tell me he’d been in some horrible accident? Was he injured? Maimed? In a coma? Dead?
Or worse than dead—yes, worse than dead for me—was he in love with someone else and getting married?
I drew in two deep breaths, and answered my phone.
“Hey, Amber, how’s it going?” I tried to sound casual, but I don’t think I pulled it off.
She didn’t seem to notice.
“Have you heard from Ty?”
Okay, that was weird.
“No,” I said. “Why?”
Amber hesitated for a few seconds, then said, “I can’t find him.”
Okay, that was really weird.
“You mean he’s lost?”
I flashed on him buried under an avalanche on Everest; in the wreckage of a small plane atop the Himalayas; marooned on a postage stamp–sized island in the Pacific.
“He’s not answering my emails or returning my calls,” Amber said. “He’s been good about staying in touch the whole time he’s been gone. Until the last several days. I haven’t heard from him at all.”
“That’s not like him,” I agreed.
Of course, I was remembering the old Ty—not the one who’d taken off in a red convertible Ferrari Spider on a moment’s notice. He’d presumably spent the past few months reassessing his life. Who knew how he might have changed?
“I thought maybe you’d heard from him,” Amber said, still sounding worried. “Maybe the two of you had worked things out and were holed up somewhere together making up for lost time.”
The image exploded in my mind, but I forced it away.
“If he’s making up for lost time with someone, it’s not me,” I said, and my heart ached a little saying the words. “He’s probably got a new girlfriend and he’s holed up with her.”
“I doubt it,” Amber said. “It’s just not like him to disappear like this. I’m afraid something’s happened.”
We were quiet for a minute or so. Amber, like me, was probably thinking the worst.
“It’s probably nothing,” I said. “I’m sure he’s fine.”
“You’re right.”
“He’s a grown man. He can take care of himself.”
“Right again.”
Amber didn’t sound convinced. I couldn’t blame her.
“If you hear from him, will you let me know?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said. But, honestly, after all this time with no word from Ty, I was certain I’d be the last one he’d contact.
We ended the call and I drove back to the 210.
As I headed up the entrance ramp, my conversation with Amber was still banging around in my mind.
She’d mentioned Ty and immediately I’d thought the worst. I’d been in total panic mode thinking something had happened to him, that he was dying, that he was getting married—that he was lost to me forever.
What was the matter with me? Why did I keep losing my mind over him?
I’d decided to stop. And that was exactly what I was going to do. For reals, this time.
I was dating Liam now. He was a great guy. I was going away with him weekend after next. That’s where I needed to focus my attention.
A mocha Frappuccino would have helped.
Since there wasn’t a Starbucks located nearby, I pushed through and filled my head with one of my favorite things—fashion.
Barely a quarter of the way through my mental inventory of the romantic-getaway clothes in my closet, my cell phone rang. I jumped, thinking it was Amber calling again.
Had she heard from Ty? Was she calling to say he was fine, no big deal, forget she’d called earlier?
Or had she heard from the police, the emergency room, the Navy SEALS with news of a horrific accident?
I glanced at the ID screen and saw that it was Elise calling.
My thoughts zoomed off in another direction—I was still, of course, thinking the worst.
Had the Holt’s marketing department discovered some major problem with the festival? Some disaster I hadn’t anticipated?
I’m not big on suspense, so I answered her call.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Elise told me.
She sounded chipper, upbeat—just the boost my day needed.
“Since I’ve called you so many times with problems,” she said, “I thought it would be cool if we talked about something happy.”
I was totally on board with happy.
“Sure,” I said. “What’s up?”
“How do you like your bag?” she asked. “Do you have it with you, or are you saving it for a special occasion?”
My bad-news-is-coming antennae perked up.
“I’m not following you,” I said
“Your handbag. The Mystique,” she said. “The Nuovo store in Valencia received their shipment yesterday afternoon.”
Oh, crap.
“They called you, didn’t they?” Elise asked.
She sounded slightly concerned. I was, too.
“No, I haven’t heard from Chandra yet,” I said.
“Oh?”
Now Elise sounded really concerned.
A few seconds passed. Then she said, “I’m sure you’ll hear from them any time now. Today for sure.”
I tried to be generous of spirit and thought, and told myself that Chandra was probably just busy and simply hadn’t gotten to my name on the wait list yet. Or maybe she’d been out sick, or had an emergency, or something.
But, honestly, I was having a little trouble believing my own wishful thinking—especially since I’d seen her carrying a Mystique at the Cheesecake Factory the other day, dressed in the latest designer clothes.
“Thanks for letting me know,” I said.
Elise paused for a few seconds, then said, “If you don’t hear from Chandra, or someone else at the store today, let me know. I’ll follow up on it.”
“I will,” I said. “Thanks again.”
We ended the call.
I whipped my Honda into the fast lane, hit the gas, and headed for Nuovo.
CHAPTER 22
Instead of parking at the curb outside of Nuovo, I turned the corner, swung into the parking garage, took the ramp up, and pulled into an empty slot on the second level. The place was about half full, which wasn’t unusual for late afternoon. Moms with school-age kids had already headed home, and working women were still slaving away at their jobs.
My first instinct was to straight-arm the door to Nuovo, march up to the counter, and demand to know just where the heck my Mystique clutch was, and why nobody had called me yesterday.
But, really, I was pretty sure I knew the answer to both of those questions.
I didn’t want to think the worst of someone—in this case, Chandra—but it seemed obvious to me that she’d stolen the Mystique I’d seen her carrying the other day from the shipment of handbags, and had been shining me on with that excuse about the shipment being delayed. Added to my I’m-sure-I’m-right suspicion was Elise’s comment that the store had suffered a rash of supposedly waylaid merchandise.
But as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t just barge into the shop and make that sort of accusation. After all, I could be wrong—I doubted it, but it was possible—and throwing down that sort of claim was hard to come back from. No way did I want to alienate anyone in the shop and jeopardize my eighty-percent employee discount.
We’ve all got our priorities.
I decided to take things slow—which I really
didn’t like doing, usually—and dug my cell phone from my handbag as I headed down the stairs to the ground floor level. I called Nuovo. Chandra answered.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Randolph,” she said. “I’m so pleased to hear from you. You were on my list for today.”
I froze on the sidewalk. She’d intended to call and let me know my Mystique had arrived?
Jeez, and I’d thought sure she’d stolen the handbag meant for me.
Okay, so I was wrong.
I didn’t feel so great about myself.
“I wanted to let you know that our shipment of Mystique bags hasn’t arrived yet,” Chandra said.
I knew I wasn’t wrong.
Am I awesome, or what?
“You didn’t receive a shipment yesterday?” I asked, just to be sure.
“I’m so sorry, but we didn’t. I’ll let you know the moment we get your bag, of course,” Chandra said. “Unless you’d prefer to make a different selection? We have the latest styles from all the best designers in stock. I could give you an even better discount on one of those.”
No way was I settling for anything less than a Mystique, nor was I falling for her oh-so-obvious attempt to throw me off and cover her tracks by steering me to a different bag.
“I might do that,” I lied. “What time do you get off today?”
“I’ll be here for another hour,” she said. “But if you want to come in later, I’ll be happy to stay. Just let me know.”
“Thanks,” I said, and we ended the call.
I walked to the end of the block and gazed down the street at Nuovo. I was really tempted to go inside and confront anyone and everyone who happened to be there right now.
I’m not good at holding back.
Instead, I did what anybody who suspected that a crime had been committed would have done—I headed to Macy’s to do some shopping.
* * *
“What are we doing?” Detective Shuman asked.
“We’re on a stakeout,” I told him.
“We are?”
“Just roll with it.”
Okay, so this wasn’t the sort of stakeout a homicide detective was used to. I got that. But the most fabulous clutch bag in the entire history of all known civilization was involved, so what else could I do?
We were seated on a bench in a small courtyard amid a maze of upscale office buildings. To our left were the rear exits of a line of shops, and to our right was the parking garage designated for employees only.
The shop I was watching, of course, was Nuovo. Chandra had told me when her shift ended. I figured she’d leave through the store’s rear door and head for her car in the parking garage.
I wasn’t sure exactly what I intended to do when I saw her, but I was confident I’d know when the moment presented itself.
While I’d been shopping at Macy’s, Shuman had texted me stating he had some info to share, so I’d told him to meet me here.
I mean, really, if you’re going to be on a stakeout, why not do it with a trained professional—who also happened to be a hot-looking guy who was fun to hang out with?
We made a bit of a mismatched pair—me in my black business suit and Shuman in his questionable-fashion combo, a navy-blue sport coat and a yellow shirt that he’d paired, apparently for no good reason, with a turquoise necktie. Still, we were inconspicuous and semi-undercover enough not to raise eyebrows since the people coming and going around us hadn’t given us a second look.
I figured Shuman’s day had been easy, or as easy as a homicide detective’s day can get. He seemed relaxed, but I sensed the undercurrent of caution and suspicion that seemed to always flow through him. I guess that came with the job. It was probably tough to completely let down your guard when spending your days seeing the absolute worst in people.
“Did you find anything new on Asha’s murder investigation?” Shuman asked.
He’d texted me because he had info to share, but, of course, he wasn’t going to be the first one to divulge anything. I wished I could accommodate him.
“Nothing,” I said. “Honestly, I’ve been spending most of my time putting together the festival for Holt’s. It’s a super rush. Everybody at the corporate office and at the store is stressing out over it, wanting to make sure it goes smoothly for the investigative journalists who’ll be there.”
He nodded.
“It would help if Asha’s murder was solved before they got here,” I said. “Have you come up with anything?”
Shuman didn’t answer right away.
I think he enjoyed making me wait—which I totally understood since I have some control issues on my own, or so I’ve been told.
Finally, he said, “I talked to George Wright at the auto repair shop.”
“Did he confess?” I asked.
“Yes, but not to Asha’s murder,” he said. “He admitted paying what amounted to bribery to her for advertisements on her Exposer website.”
I felt a spark of anger.
“He took out ads, expensive ads, to keep her from writing bad things about his business?” I asked.
“Yes, he did.”
“Those must have cost him a fortune,” I said. “How could they not, considering Asha’s lavish lifestyle?”
“Cheaper than having his business’s reputation ruined,” Shuman said. “He has a family, a mortgage, a couple of kids heading for college. He couldn’t afford to take the financial hit.”
My opinion of Asha sunk even lower, though I hadn’t thought that was possible.
“Did he know she was dead?” I asked.
Shuman nodded. “He’d heard.”
“The news probably perked up his day considerably,” I said, which, I know, wasn’t a very nice thought, but still. “No more paying for overpriced ads he didn’t want.”
“Which is why he lashed out at you when you showed up at his garage,” Shuman said. “He thought you were taking over the site from Asha.”
Wow, I hadn’t thought about that—and I didn’t feel so great knowing that my presence had caused him so much grief.
“No wonder he was so upset with me,” I said.
Then something else hit me.
“This makes him a suspect in Asha’s murder,” I said.
“He had motive,” Shuman agreed. “If he got rid of Asha he wouldn’t have to fork out money for those ads, and he wouldn’t have to worry that she’d ruin his business with one of her reviews.”
“Does he have an alibi?”
“Says he was at the garage that day,” Shuman said. “He’s in and out, running errands. He owns the place so nobody keeps track of him. Pinning down his exact schedule on the day of the murder would take some work.”
“What about Valerie Roderick?” I asked.
“Her alibi checks out.”
I was relieved to drop Valerie from my mental list of suspects.
Nuovo’s rear door opened and Chandra walked out. She had on the same plain black dress all the clerks wore, and her hair was in a neat bun. A large tote bag was hooked over her shoulder.
She studied her cell phone as she hurried toward the parking garage. I studied her tote bag.
It was made of simple cotton fabric printed with yellow, blue, and orange flip-flops, and had a heavy braided cloth handle.
Definitely not a designer bag.
The sides bulged and she struggled to keep the straps from falling off of her shoulder. The bag was filled with something—my Mystique clutch, maybe?
“Wait here,” I told Shuman, and got to my feet.
“Where are you going?” He sounded concerned, maybe slightly alarmed.
“Just wait here. I’ll be right back.”
He might have said something else, but I didn’t hang around to listen. I cut across the sidewalk and intercepted Chandra just before she reached the parking garage.
“What’s in the bag?” I demanded, planting myself in front of her.
She stopped short. Her head jerked up. A few what-the-heck seconds passed before s
he recognized me.
“Oh, Ms. Randolph, how nice to—”
“Save it for the store,” I told her, and pointed to her tote bag. “Show me what’s in there.”
Chandra drew back and straightened her shoulders. “This is my personal stuff. You have no right to see it.”
“No?” I nodded toward Shuman. “Well, he does.”
She turned. Shuman was on his feet, frowning, and watching us.
“He’s an LAPD detective,” I said.
She rolled her eyes. “He is not. He’s your boyfriend.”
“Are you kidding? Look at how he’s dressed,” I said.
She gave Shuman the once-over and her expression darkened. “Oh. Yeah, that’s bad.”
“Look, Chandra, everybody knows shipments have been supposedly lost. You’re stealing merchandise from the store,” I said. “You’ve been smuggling it out in that tote bag, thinking nobody would notice because the thing is so crappy.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she told me. “I’m off work, and I don’t have to listen to this.”
Chandra cut around me and disappeared into the parking garage. I let her go. What else could I do, short of starting a throw-down?
“I thought I was about to see a chick fight.” Shuman appeared next to me. “What was that about?”
“A handbag.”
He didn’t seem surprised.
“How about a Starbucks?” he asked.
Shuman knew me well.
It was way cool.
“Come on,” he said. “We’ll go talk about murder. Not only is George Wright now a suspect, but so are the dozens of other business owners who advertised on Asha’s website.”
Oh, crap.
CHAPTER 23
I woke this morning with crime on my mind. Crimes that someone else had committed, not a crime I intended to commit—so far, anyway; the day wasn’t over. I was working my afternoon shift at Holt’s. Anything could happen.
“I need to get on camera,” Bella told me as we pulled T-shirts off a display stand in the misses department and stacked them onto a U-boat. “You know, when those investigative journalists get here. I need to be seen.”
“You want to be interviewed about the murder?” I asked.
Her expression soured. “No, that whole dead-girl thing is b.s. if you ask me. Television is full of long, in-depth stories about murders of people nobody ever heard of. Just a way to fill airtime.”
Pocketbooks and Pistols Page 17
