I couldn’t disagree.
“So why do you want to get on camera?” I asked.
“The world needs to see my hairstyles.” Bella pointed to what looked like a 3D gift box complete with a huge bow that she’d shaped atop her head. “Cool stuff, don’t you think?”
“Your best design yet,” I agreed.
“So, see? Here’s my plan—I get on camera and show off my do, then everybody all across America gets a look at my unique work,” Bella said, gently patting the sides and back of her head. “I’ll just happen to let it slip that I’m saving for beauty school so I can bring my own brand of hair styles to the world and, bang, the donations start pouring in.”
“You think so?”
“Damn straight.” She gestured to her hair again. “Who would see this and not be struck speechless?”
She had me there.
“Hey, guys,” Sandy called.
She rolled up to the display stand pushing a U-boat loaded with stacks of new merchandise. I couldn’t tell exactly what it was. More T-shirts, maybe. All I knew for sure was that these bedazzled floral prints embellished with tiny bows and hearts weren’t likely to make the cover of Vogue.
“Tonight’s the big night,” Sandy announced, as she grabbed a stack of outgoing T-shirts off of the display stand.
“Oh, yeah, your birthday dinner with your boyfriend,” Bella said. “Is that still on? He hasn’t backed out, has he?”
“Of course not,” she said, bouncing on her toes and smiling. “I am so super excited.”
I felt kind of bad that I hadn’t gotten Sandy anything for her big day, but my Holt’s BFFs didn’t exchange presents. Really, most everybody who worked here was struggling to make ends meet. Exchanging gifts was a tradition nobody could really afford.
“Happy birthday,” I said.
“Actually, my birthday is tomorrow,” she said.
“So why is your boyfriend taking you out to celebrate tonight instead of tomorrow?” Bella asked.
“He can’t do it tomorrow,” Sandy said. “He’s got a family reunion that he has to go to.”
“You’re not going to the family reunion with him? How come?” Bella asked. “You two have been dating for, what, more than a year now? And you haven’t met his family yet?”
“He’s an artist,” Sandy explained. “He has to feel something is truly right before he moves on it.”
Bella and I exchange a yeah-right eye roll.
I grabbed the last stack of T-shirts from the display and dropped them onto the U-boat.
“Have a good time tonight,” I said.
“Oh, I will,” Sandy said.
I headed down the aisle, pushing the U-boat ahead of me. I didn’t have a good feeling about Sandy’s big birthday night out with her boyfriend, but maybe it was just me. After all, I woke up this morning with Asha’s murder investigation weighing heavily on my mind.
After learning from Shuman yesterday that George Wright at the auto repair place had a reason to want Asha dead—which meant that everyone else who advertised on her site wanted pretty much the same thing—I didn’t see how Asha’s murder could be solved before the investigative reporters arrived. No way could Shuman, even with the massive resources available at the LAPD, work his way through that long list of names, check out each and every one of them, and establish an alibi—or not.
Faced with those odds, there was nothing I’d like more than to solve this case myself. It would be totally cool. Shuman would be so impressed. I felt sure I could do it. I just needed one key piece of evidence or information that would bring everything together.
All I had to do was find it.
As I turned the corner near the housewares department, I spotted Jeanette in menswear, chatting with that big guy who works there.
Yikes! No way did I want to get stuck talking with her. I knew she’d want to ask me a zillion questions about the festival and, really, there was nothing new I could tell her.
I’d spent the morning at L.A. Affairs confirming—and reconfirming—that everything was in place for the festival. Preparation would begin tomorrow morning, on schedule, as promised. Likewise, every last detail was ready to go for the festival’s kickoff on Saturday.
I wouldn’t be here now, I wouldn’t have left L.A. Affairs this morning, if anything else needed to be handled.
Before Jeanette could spot me, I whipped the U-boat around and headed the other way.
At the entrance to the stockroom, I pushed the U-boat through the swinging doors and down the aisles. This load of T-shirts was being returned to the manufacturer, for some reason. I didn’t know what it was. Surely, not simply because they were hideous—if so, all our shelves would be empty.
I reached the returns area of the stockroom. The place was quiet. Nobody else was around.
Instead of off-loading the T-shirts, I decided this particular chore could wait—really, there’s always a good reason to put something off. I sank onto the bottom step of the staircase that led to the second floor, thoughts of murder suspects filling my head again.
First, there was the wife of the convenience store owner. She had one of the oldest and most justified motives around—really, anyone who cheated on a spouse ought to be shot.
But why she’d gone after Asha and not that scumbag husband of hers, I didn’t know. Still, it was an excellent motive, and the rear of the Holt’s shopping center made a convenient place to commit the crime. Plus, she had no alibi for the time of the murder, according to Shuman.
Carrie had motive and opportunity, two really important items on my mental yeah-she-probably-did-it list. Asha had trashed her bakery on the Exposer site, and she’d been killed just steps from the rear exit to Carrie’s shop.
But what about means? Shuman hadn’t found a gun registered in Carrie’s name. That didn’t exclude the possibility that she owned an unregistered weapon, or had somehow gotten one from somebody she knew.
Dena owned a gun—she’d used it to accidentally shoot her own husband. She had opportunity.
But what could have been her motive? Asha hadn’t written a scathing review about her craft store, and I hadn’t seen an ad on the Exposer site that Dena might have placed there to keep Asha happy, as George at Wright Auto Works—and probably others—had done.
Of course, there were dozens of other potential suspects that Shuman was sorting through. Maybe the killer was someone I hadn’t even met.
Still, I couldn’t help but feel that something major was missing. Some piece of the puzzle that hadn’t been discovered yet. A connection of some sort that hadn’t been made, which, once revealed, would tie everything together.
Maybe it was the proximity of the shops in the center to the crime scene. Was it simply a coincidence? I doubted it. More likely, the killer had seen Asha here, making this a crime of opportunity. Or followed her there. Did somebody want her death tied to Holt’s?
I was getting nowhere, and my brain was starting to hurt.
I desperately needed a mocha Frappuccino.
Just as I was contemplating coming up with a good excuse to leave Holt’s early today, another crime popped into my head.
Chandra and my Mystique clutch.
I looked around at the shelves teeming with fresh, new merchandise, every possible item for every member of the family, all just sitting there. How easy it would be for an employee to slip back here, put a few things in a handbag or pocket, and smuggle them out of the store. Times were hard for a lot of people, including the Holt’s employees, and it was surely tempting to walk off with a pack of socks or underwear, or something more expensive.
It must have been really tempting for Chandra, working in a store that carried designer fashions that she could keep for herself, or easily sell to her friends or online for a ton of cash.
There was little in place to prevent an employee from stealing a store’s merchandise—the honor system, a personal code of conduct, and, of course, the fear of getting caught and losing your job. Those th
ings deterred most workers but surely not everyone.
I considered calling the Holt’s corporate office and ratting out Chandra. But, honestly, it was doubtful they would do anything. I had no real proof. And even if I did, theft was tough to prove unless the employee was caught red-handed. Plus, that sort of crime was hardly worth the legal fees and expenses necessary to prosecute the suspected culprit.
Maybe I’d frightened Chandra enough with my accusation that she’d suddenly come up with Mystique clutches for Marcie and me to keep me quiet. Or maybe she’d quit and her replacement would see to it we got our bags. Otherwise, I didn’t know how I was going to get my hands on that Mystique.
Not a great feeling.
My day definitely needed a boost.
I’d had enough thoughts of murder for one day. I needed to move to a problem I could definitely find a conclusion to—the beauty pageant scandal.
I stacked the T-shirts onto the returns counter, parked the U-boat, and hurried to the breakroom. After I dashed off a quick email to Jeanette stating something had come up with the festival that needed my immediate attention—a big fat lie, but oh well—I clocked out and left the store.
I drove to Starbucks, and while I sat in the drive-through line, I Googled nursing homes in Pasadena on my cell phone. The young mom whom I’d met at Ted Tremaine’s old family home had mentioned that he’d been placed in a care facility several years ago. His wife had still been alive at that time, so I figured she would have selected a place close to their house so she could visit easily and often.
As the line moved forward, my Google search presented me with over a dozen nursing homes.
Jeez, how many old sick people were in Pasadena?
I picked the one closest to the Tremaine home, punched the address into my GPS, got my mocha Frappuccino, and took off.
* * *
Four nursing homes, one mocha Frappuccino, and numerous maybe-I-should-find-a-different-search-method thoughts later, I rolled up to the Golden Years Care Center just off of Fair Oaks Avenue. It was a one-story building surrounded by trimmed shrubbery, colorful flowerbeds, and towering trees that were probably younger than most of the residents.
I parked and went inside. The lobby had tile floors, serviceable furniture, and halfway decent wall art, all in pleasant, neutral tones. Two middle-aged couples were crowded together on a sofa, murmuring and looking tense, probably waiting for a tour that would decide the fate of a parent.
Behind the long, high reception counter stood a forty-something woman with sensible dark hair, wearing an itwas-on-the-clearance-rack-so-I-bought-it pale blue dress. I walked up and waited while she shuffled some papers around before she acknowledged my presence.
“Hi,” I said, giving her my you-can-trust-me-smile. “I’m here to visit one of your residents. Theodore Tremaine.”
I was ready with my oh-no-you’re-kidding story that I’d perfected at the previous four care facilities I’d visited when I’d been told no one by that name lived there. So I was surprised when the woman pulled out a binder, opened it to a page with Theodore Tremaine’s name at the top, and placed it on the counter in front of me.
“Sign in, please,” she said. “And I’ll need to see your ID.”
I guess that was it for security, but, really, what else did they need? Nobody was boarding an aircraft here or visiting a prisoner.
After I signed in and watched as she wrote down my info, she handed back my driver’s license and closed the logbook with a snap.
“Ted is in one-twelve. But he’s probably in the day room. That’s where he usually spends his time.” She pointed. “Through the double doors, turn left, and you’ll see it at the end of the corridor. Enjoy your visit, Ms. Randolph.”
I thanked her and headed for the day room.
The double doors opened into a long corridor. The place smelled of pine cleaner. The floors sparkled. Everything looked neat and orderly. Caregivers dressed in pastel uniforms bustled through the corridor looking pleasant and competent. The residents moved along at a much slower pace, some of them on walkers, others in wheelchairs.
The day room at the end of the corridor was a large space filled with numerous seating groups, two televisions, a bookcase of paperbacks, and a table with a half-completed jigsaw puzzle. Large windows let in natural light and offered a view of the rear of the property, a garden setting with wide walking paths, benches, a fountain, and lots of shade trees.
A dozen or so residents were scattered throughout the room, some sitting together while a few others were seated alone. Nobody looked up when I walked in.
I hoped that meant the folks confined to this place routinely got visitors, so spotting a stranger was no big deal.
I’d figured that after seeing so many photos of Ted online, I would recognize him. Now I wasn’t so sure. In the pictures, he’d looked strong and healthy, even in the recent shots of him with his mane of white hair.
No one here looked like that.
A caregiver wearing a blue uniform and comfy shoes paused beside me on her way out of the day room. She must have realized my predicament because she said, “Looking for someone?”
“Ted Tremaine,” I said.
I was ready to let loose with my I’m-a-friend-of-his-granddaughter story, but she didn’t give me a chance.
“Over there. In the wheelchair.” She pointed across the room, to the window, then kept walking.
Ted seemed like a smaller version of his former self. His white hair had thinned considerably. His face, neck, and arms looked boney, as if he’d somehow shrunk, making the khaki pants and checked shirt he wore seem several sizes too big.
“Hello, Ted,” I said, stopping next to his wheelchair.
He looked up, his brilliant blue eyes locking onto my face. I hadn’t been sure what sort of reception I’d get, a complete stranger showing up out of nowhere, but he smiled, displaying the flash of youth and vitality I’d seen in those online photos.
“Well, hello there.”
I grabbed a chair from the jigsaw puzzle table, pulled it over, and sat down beside his wheelchair, facing him.
“I wonder if it would be all right if I talked to you about a beauty pageant you judged,” I said. “It was the Miss California Cupid contest. You might remember, it was about—”
He gasped. One hand shot to his chest, the other reached out to me.
I went immediately into semi-panic mode. What was happening? Was he having a heart attack?
I was about to jump up and go for help when he grabbed my hand. His fingers felt cold and papery, but his grip was strong. He stared at me, squinting, tilting his head left, then right, finally leaning closer.
“Caroline?” he croaked.
Oh my God.
“Caroline?” A smile broke over his face. “Caroline Vander Meer? Is that really you?”
He thought I was my mom.
“You’re as beautiful as ever,” he said, grasping my hand with both of his. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
He thought I was my mom back in the day.
I didn’t know what to say or do. Obviously, Ted suffered from dementia, or maybe Alzheimer’s.
Yikes! No way did I want to get old.
I didn’t want to be here any longer, either. Besides, in his mental state, I didn’t see how he could give me any information about the Miss California Cupid scandal. All I could think to do was ride it out until I could slip away.
“Oh, Caroline,” he said, his smile growing wider.
Jeez, what was I supposed to do? It didn’t seem right to let him think I was my mom.
“Actually, Caroline is—”
“You were the cutest little cupid in the pageant,” Ted said, giving my hand a squeeze. He sighed and closed his eyes for a second, then said, “I knew you’d come back.”
Come back? What the heck was he talking about?
“A man in my position.” He winked. “Anything for a pageant crown, huh, Caroline?”
Oh my God. Oh my God.
The scandalous rumor was true. One of the pageant contestants had slept with Theodore Tremaine—and it was my mom.
Mom had fooled around with—
Hang on a second.
Mom had sex with a pageant judge and she’d placed second? Second?
Oh, crap.
CHAPTER 24
I needed a shower.
No, wait. A shower wouldn’t be enough. I needed to scrub my brain clean of the image of Mom and Ted Tremaine having hot, sweaty jungle sex—somehow.
Yeah, okay, I was all grown up, a mature adult, but this whole thing sent me into major, middle school gross-out mode.
Mom. Having sex—actual sex.
No child should have to face that.
I hurried from the day room, anxious to get out of the nursing home, into my car, onto the freeway, perhaps never to return to Pasadena in my entire life.
Oh my God, how was I ever going to look at my mom again without thinking about this?
I banged through the double doors, my vision laser sharp on the exit across the lobby.
Then it hit me—I hadn’t solved the problem. I hadn’t found a way to end the scandal. I couldn’t leave.
Crap.
I stopped and drew in several breaths. I waited for my heart rate and breathing to slow to normal. A moment passed, then another.
Nothing returned to normal.
Oh my God, did that mean I was never going to get over this?
I darted to the reception desk.
“I need to speak with the director.” I might have said that kind of loud.
The woman behind the counter whipped around
“Now!” I’m sure I said that loud. Really loud.
Her eyebrows disappeared under her bangs, her eyes bugged out.
“Or there’s going to be a lawsuit so huge it will bury this place!” Yeah, I screamed that.
She grabbed the telephone—hopefully she wasn’t calling security—and murmured something that included my name and Ted Tremaine’s, then hung up.
“The director will see you now.” She pointed to the double doors. “Turn right, halfway down the corridor on your left.”
Pocketbooks and Pistols Page 18
