Pocketbooks and Pistols

by Dorothy Howell

  Would part of my heart always belong to him? Would I look back on my decision to forget about him and, one day, wonder what if?

  I sat there in my car for a few minutes, thinking. Maybe I should call Amber and ask if she’d heard from Ty.

  I grabbed my cell phone.

  I scrolled through my contact list.

  I called Liam instead.

  * * *

  When I rolled into the Holt’s parking lot a little later, I was pleased to see that the crew I’d hired was already at work. From the quick look I got, everything seemed to be on schedule. The festival area had been blocked off, booths were being set up, and construction on the runway for the fashion show was moving along quickly.

  I grabbed my things and got out of the car. I hoped I’d see Detective Shuman’s plain vanilla cop-mobile. He’d promised he would interview Carrie today, and I really wanted him to get to it this morning.

  Everybody would breathe easier when Asha’s murder was solved.

  Shuman’s car was nowhere to be seen, so I headed into the store. If he didn’t show up soon, I’d give him a call.

  Checking in with Jeanette was my first priority—but it would be for her benefit, not mine. She’d want a status report on progress. I’d already spoken with Elise in marketing on the drive here and given her an update.

  There was a lot of hand-holding involved with being an event planner.

  When I got inside of Holt’s, two of the checkout lanes were open and a few customers were in line. I’d seen the advertising blitz that had gone out announcing the festival that would begin tomorrow, compete with deep discounts and the special sales, so I wasn’t surprised the store was so empty this morning.

  As I headed for the breakroom to stow my handbag—a fabulous Marc Jacobs—Bella hurried out of the women’s clothing department and cut me off.

  “You want to hear some b.s.?” she demanded.

  I always wanted to hear some b.s.

  But from the look on her face, I knew this wasn’t ordinary, run-of-the-mill, b.s.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Sandy. That sorry, no-good idiot of a boyfriend of hers.”

  “Oh my God. Last night was her big birthday dinner,” I said.

  “Nope,” Bella said. “It was a total bust.”

  Oh, crap.

  CHAPTER 26

  “What happened?” I asked, as I hurried into the breakroom, Bella on my heels.

  “I don’t know.”

  At the lockers, I grabbed my cell phone and shoved my handbag inside.

  “Did they have a fight?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  I was starting to get slightly annoyed. I was worried about my friend, and this close to finding out what was wrong, but not getting anywhere.

  “Then how do you know something happened?” I asked, closing my locker.

  Bella huffed. “Sandy’s not saying anything—except that everything was all right. It was fine. It was good. You know, that same b.s. she always says when anything comes up about that jackass boyfriend of hers.”

  Okay, now I understood.

  “Let’s go talk to her,” I said.

  I had festival prep to oversee, Jeanette to brief, Detective Shuman arriving any minute to interview a murder suspect, a team of investigative journalists with a multimillion-plus television audience on the way, the fate of the entire Holt’s shopping center hanging in the balance, and my every action today likely to be under a microscope.

  Well, all of that could wait. My friend was upset and I needed to find out what was going on.

  Bella and I left the breakroom and found Sandy stocking coffeemakers in the housewares department.

  “How’d it go last night?” I asked, and managed to sound somewhat pleasant.

  “It was fine,” Sandy said. “You know, okay. Good.”

  “But . . . ?”

  She shrugged and said, “Well, you know, the evening didn’t turn out exactly like I’d pictured.”

  “What did he do?” Bella demanded.

  Sandy paused for a few seconds, then said, “He had to work. He couldn’t help it. It was an emergency.”

  “Somebody needed an emergency tattoo?” I might have said that kind of loud.

  “He did the best he could,” Sandy insisted. “He ordered a pizza and had it delivered to my house.”

  “That’s it?” Bella asked.

  “He called me,” Sandy added.

  Oh my God. I hated that boyfriend of hers. She deserved so much better.

  Bella looked like she might actually explode and said, “That’s it? That’s what he did for your birthday?”

  “He said he’d make it up to me,” Sandy insisted. “And he will. He’s taking me out next weekend. He promised.”

  “That sounds like some b.s. to me,” Bella grumbled.

  “When you’re in a relationship, you have to learn to compromise,” Sandy said. “Things can’t always be the way you want them.”

  “Why not?” Bella demanded.

  “They just can’t. It’s give and take,” Sandy said, then paused for a few seconds. “It would have been nice to go out for my birthday. But I understand, and I’m okay with what happened.”

  I wasn’t okay with it, and I knew Bella wasn’t either.

  Sandy started unloading coffeemakers again, and Bella and I walked away.

  “It’s not right,” Bella said. “I don’t care what Sandy says, it’s not right.”

  “I know, but what can we—”

  My brain jumped into event-planner mode.

  “Let’s have a birthday party for her here,” I said. “I’ll run to the bakery and get a cake. You spread the word, and we’ll surprise her.”

  “I like it,” Bella said. “All right, let’s do it.”

  I hurried to the breakroom, got cash from my wallet, and left the store. I knew Carrie had been swamped with all the baking she had to do for the festival, but I was confident she’d have a suitable cake and could whip out a happy birthday message in icing while I waited.

  Unless—

  I scanned the parking lot. Still no sign of Shuman. Whew! No way did I want him arresting Carrie and carting her away in handcuffs before I got Sandy’s birthday cake.

  Then someone else caught my eye.

  Jack stood at the edge of the parking lot, watching the work crew and holding his cell phone to his ear. He looked hot, of course, dressed in jeans, a dark brown sweater, and CAT boots.

  I’d known he would be here. He had a team providing security for the festival, so scoping out the setup today was essential.

  He spotted me, ended his call, then joined me on the sidewalk.

  When it came to his job, Jack was all business. We exchanged a quick greeting, then he got down to it, confirming that everything I’d asked for, and everything he’d recommended for the festival, was on schedule, moving forward, with no problems in sight.

  “How’s it looking here?” Jack asked.

  “Shaping up as planned,” I told him. “We’re expecting a big crowd tomorrow, lots of kids, families.”

  “My team will be invisible,” he assured me.

  “The whole situation is about to change,” I said.

  He sensed something was up, so he moved in close and leaned down a little.

  “I figured out who killed Asha,” I whispered.

  Jack looked surprised.

  Cool.

  I explained to him that I’d determined Carrie was the murderer and had been pushed to commit the crime because of Asha’s probable threat to write another damning review if Carrie didn’t pony up some big advertising bucks.

  “Carrie is devoted to her bakery. Anybody who runs a business feels that way,” I said. “She wasn’t going to stand by and let Asha ruin it for her.”

  “What about evidence?” Jack asked.

  Jeez, what was up with all the where’s-the-evidence talk? Shuman had asked the same thing.

  “It’s in Asha’s compute
r,” I told him. “Shuman is having it analyzed. He’ll be here later today to interview Carrie again, and arrest her.”

  Jack made no comment.

  How come nobody—but me—was awed by my super sleuthing skills?

  “Keep me posted,” he said.

  Jack headed for the parking lot again, and I went to the bakery.

  The place smelled as delightful as ever. The display cases were jammed with an array of cookies, brownies, and beautifully decorated cupcakes. On the counter sat jars of colorful candies. There were no customers, but I spotted two girls I hadn’t seen before wearing Cakes By Carrie aprons. Apparently, Carrie had brought in extra help to handle the workload.

  I felt kind of bad being there, seeing how hard Carrie had worked for the festival and knowing she was about to get hauled away in cuffs inside a squad car. But what else could I do? I needed a birthday cake for Sandy.

  When I reached the counter, one of the new girls came over.

  “I know you’re super busy this morning, but I really need a birthday cake,” I said. “Can you help me out?”

  “Hang on a second,” she said, and disappeared into the kitchen behind her.

  A few seconds later, Carrie leaned around the doorway. She spotted me, and her expression soured a bit.

  “Hi, Carrie,” I called in my best please-like-me-and-do-what-I-ask voice. “I wouldn’t ask for this when you’re so busy if it wasn’t important.”

  “All I’ve got is a vanilla quarter-sheet with buttercream icing,” she said.

  “That will be great,” I told her. “Can you put a birthday message on it?”

  She huffed and said, “Yeah, I guess.”

  The other clerk grabbed an order form and pen. “What do you want on the cake?”

  “Would you put ‘Happy birthday, Sandy’ on it? Pink icing would be great, and maybe scatter some sugar confetti on it—”

  Dena walked out of the kitchen. I hadn’t seen her back there with Carrie. She gave me a big smile and said, “I’ve gotten all kinds of great comments from my customers. They’re all excited about the festival.”

  “Good to know,” I said.

  She nodded toward her craft store next door and said, “I’d better get over there. Tons to do before tomorrow.”

  “Sure,” I said. “If anything comes up, any problems, just—”

  “Mom?”

  Dena whipped around. Carrie stood in the kitchen doorway.

  I got a weird feeling

  “Don’t forget we’re making the bank run together this afternoon,” Carrie said. “You said to remind you.”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” Dena said, nodding.

  “You’re mother and daughter?” I asked, looking back and forth between them.

  “We are,” Dena said, giving me her biggest smile yet.

  My weird feeling got weirder.

  “I didn’t know,” I said.

  Dena kept staring at me, her smile firmly in place, then said, “I’ve really got to run.”

  She didn’t wait for me to say anything, just hurried out the door. When I turned around, Carrie had vanished.

  “Here you go.” The clerk showed me the cake she’d decorated with Sandy’s birthday message, then sealed it in a pink bakery box.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  I paid her and left the store.

  As I headed to Holt’s, my something’s-weird feeling grew larger inside me.

  I hadn’t known that Dena was Carrie’s mom. I’d had no idea, but why would I have? They had different last names. But that wasn’t unusual, wasn’t completely out-there. So why was it hitting me so hard?

  Mom flashed in my head. How would she feel seeing me handcuffed and taken away by the police, as Dena would later today after Shuman interviewed Carrie? Nobody wanted to see that happen to her child.

  Maybe that’s why the whole mother-daughter revelation bothered me so much. I’d talked to Mom this morning. We’d connected in a way we seldom did. She’d told me that, despite our differences, she’d always be there for me—which was really great to hear.

  But it was surprising, too. She’d said it with such passion. Her I’m-your-mother instincts seemed to have kicked in, and I knew she’d meant what she said.

  Mom could be wrapped up in her own world at times—well, most of the time—so it was nice to hear that she was just like every other mom who’d do anything for her child—

  Oh, crap.

  I froze on the sidewalk, then whirled around and stared at the bakery and craft store, side by side, both of them owned by a mother-daughter combo.

  A mother who, like all mothers, would do anything for her child.

  And a daughter who, I suspected, had needed something big done for her.

  Oh my God.

  I was wrong.

  CHAPTER 27

  My brain was buzzing like crazy as I put the birthday cake in the breakroom refrigerator at Holt’s. All I could think was that I’d been wrong.

  Carrie hadn’t murdered Asha—though she’d probably wanted to. Dena, her mom, had done it.

  I was sure I was right this time.

  But I had been sure yesterday when I’d told Shuman my oh-so brilliant theory and insisted he check out Asha’s computer and show up here today to arrest Carrie.

  No way could I be wrong again.

  I dashed off a text message to Bella, letting her know we’d have the party later this afternoon, and hurried out of the breakroom.

  I couldn’t bring myself to call Shuman, backpedal, and insist he listen to my I-know-who-did-it-and-this-time-I’m-right idea. I needed to find some evidence. Something concrete that would prove Dena had shot and killed Asha.

  I could think of only one place to find it.

  I left Holt’s and headed down the sidewalk toward the craft store. I spotted Jack on the other side of the parking lot, talking to two guys who I figured were from his security team.

  For a few seconds I thought about bringing Jack in on this, letting him know that I’d learned Dena and Carrie were mother and daughter and that I knew—okay, strongly suspected—the true circumstances surrounding Asha’s murder. But I’d already shot off my mouth to Jack. I didn’t want to be wrong in front of him again.

  Dena was outside her store; the door was propped open. She’d rolled several sets of display shelves onto the sidewalk and was busy moving merchandise onto them from a smaller version of a Holt’s U-boat.

  I had to play this carefully—I wasn’t exactly known for my subtlety or finesse.

  What I needed was evidence, so I had to get inside Dena’s store and find it, somehow, without giving her the idea that I suspected her of anything. After all, she owned a gun and had already shot her husband. If I was right, she’d shot Asha, too.

  I doubted she’d think twice about shooting me.

  “Hi, again,” I said, stopping next to her.

  She looked up, surprised. “Oh, hi.”

  I tried for an I-don’t-really-suspect-you-of-murder smile, but wasn’t sure I really pulled it off.

  “We’re having a little birthday party for one of the girls at Holt’s. That’s why I needed the cake from Carrie,” I said. “So I wanted to pick up some party supplies. You know, balloons, streamers, some paper plates, that kind of thing.”

  “Sure,” Dena said. “Let me show you what I have.”

  “No, no, you don’t have to do that,” I told her. “You’re busy and I don’t want to keep you from what you’re doing. I’ll find them.”

  I didn’t give her a chance to say anything before I slipped past her into the store.

  Two older women were in the scrapbooking section, loading a handbasket with supplies. I didn’t see a sales clerk.

  I made a big show of looking up and down at the merchandise, then glanced back at the entrance. Dena was focused on the displays. I hurried to the rear of the store to the door marked EMPLOYEES ONLY, and dashed inside.

  The stockroom was a fraction of the size of the one at Holt’s, w
ith a dozen tall shelving units packed with all sorts of new merchandise waiting to be displayed. I made my way through them and spotted an office area with a desk, a chair, a computer, and a printer. Two tall filing cabinets bracketed the store’s rear exit door, stacked high with binders and catalogs. Notices, bulletins, and flyers were pinned to a corkboard over the desk. Everything looked neat and tiny, well organized.

  I had only a few minutes in there before Dena would likely realize I hadn’t picked out party supplies yet and would come looking for me. I had to move fast.

  Shuman had told me Dena had a permit to carry concealed so it was likely she kept the weapon on her, which meant it was here somewhere. I was positive it was the gun that had been used in Asha’s murder. All I had to do was find it and call Shuman. I’d let him worry about search warrants, chain of custody, and LAPD’s proper procedures for gathering evidence.

  The two file cabinets looked like a great place to hide a gun. No way did I want to leave my fingerprints on anything, so I yanked my sleeve over my hand and pulled open the top drawer of one of the file cabinets. Inside were papers tucked neatly into files. Same with the second drawer, and the third.

  I reached for the handle of the fourth drawer. Voices.

  I froze. My heartbeat shot up.

  Oh my God, what was I going to tell Dena if she walked in a caught me? How would I explain myself?

  I swallowed hard and strained to listen.

  The voices faded away. I figured it must have been the two women who’d been shopping in the scrapbooking section moving past the stockroom door.

  Jeez, I really hope that’s what it was.

  I turned back to the file cabinets. Lots more drawers to go.

  I grabbed another handle and it hit me—I was looking in the wrong place.

  Dena had accidentally shot her husband when her pistol, inside her handbag, had gone off. She had a permit to carry a concealed weapon. If she’d shot Asha after a confrontation near the Holt’s loading dock—likely an unplanned meeting—that meant Dena kept her gun with her all the time, inside her handbag.

  I eyed the desk. In my office at L.A. Affairs, I always stowed my handbag in the large, bottom desk drawer. Keeping my fingers inside my sweater sleeve, I rolled the drawer open.

  Inside was a non-designer handbag—which was disturbing enough—and among the jumble of Dena’s personal items, tucked into a special strap, was a .38 handgun.