Handbags and Homicide

by Dorothy Howell

  “I’ll take it!”

  Mannequin, seeing a sales commission flash in front of her face, suddenly came to life, wrapped the Notorious purse, and shoved it into a shopping bag, as I handed over my credit card.

  I hated that she was getting the commission off my sale, but really, I can’t fight everybody’s battles, can I?

  My stomach had that warm, gooey feeling as I looped the shopping bag over my arm and headed out of the store. Then it hit me.

  Why had I done that? Why had I spent five hundred dollars on a purse—at a time like this?

  I was in shock. Yes, that’s what it was. I was still in shock over what had happened this morning at Pike Warner. I had to do something—other than buy a new bag, that is.

  I pulled out my cell phone to call Kirk Keegan. He was my one true friend at Pike Warner. Aside from him, I didn’t really know anyone else well at the firm. Except that guy Jack Bishop, who worked for one of the consultants. He was way hot. So hot, in fact, that I’m sure he screamed his own name in bed.

  Kirk came on the line sounding a bit rushed. Kirk was always rushed. I blurted out my irregularities-investigation-pending news. He hadn’t heard and that left me slightly annoyed. Word of my ordeal hadn’t made it up to fifteen yet? How could that be? I mean, wasn’t I important?

  “When did this happen?” he asked.

  I envisioned him taking notes. “This morning. Mrs. Drexler called me into her office. There’s this whole investigation thing going on.”

  “That’s normal,” he said.

  “I swear, Kirk, I never did anything wrong.”

  “Then you don’t have anything to worry about,” he said.

  Oh. Yeah. Okay, that sounded good. And it made sense. I hadn’t done anything wrong, so Mrs. Drexler and her team of investigators—I deserve a team, surely—would realize that.

  Immediately I pictured how grand I’d look on my triumphant return to Pike Warner, strolling into the office carrying the new, so-hot-it’s-cool, friend-of-Drew, Notorious handbag, in red leather, no less. I wouldn’t bother taking the new bag to Holt’s. No one there knew a thing about designer purses, and what was the point of carrying one if other people wouldn’t be jealous?

  I felt myself relax a bit.

  “So you think everything will be all right?” I asked.

  “I don’t see why not.”

  Still, I couldn’t let it go. “I think I should call Mrs. Drexler or her supervisor, or somebody,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t push it,” Kirk advised. “Nothing you say will make any difference right now. Not until they’ve completed the investigation.”

  Yes, that was true.

  “I’ll check around, see what I can find out,” he promised.

  I heaved a sigh of relief, grateful that he would go to all this effort for me when we hadn’t even had sex.

  “Just sit tight,” he said. “Enjoy a few days off.”

  “You think that’s all it will be?” I asked. “A few days?”

  “Relax, will you? I’ll be in touch,” he said, and hung up.

  Whew! Well, okay, that was good news. So good, in fact, that I just might be up to seeing my mom now.

  My family home was in La Cañada Flintridge, a town set against the San Gabriel Mountains near Pasadena. It was only about twenty minutes from downtown L.A. but pretends to be a small town with tree-lined streets, a farmers’ market, croquet tournaments, and a soapbox derby. All this in a place where homes and spacious estates are worth more than some Third World countries.

  Our big Spanish-style house was left to my mom by her grandmother, along with a trust fund. Mom was a former beauty queen—really—and wore the crown of Miss California long before she married my dad.

  He was an aerospace engineer doing top secret work for the government, which sounds more exciting than it really is. When I was growing up, for sometimes weeks on end, Dad would leave on Monday morning to work at some secret location only to return on Friday evening and not be able to tell any of us where he’d been or what he’d been doing.

  I drove up the winding road and parked in the circular driveway. Juanita, the housekeeper who’d worked for us as long as I could remember, opened the door, rolled her eyes—which should have been my cue to run—and waved me toward the patio out back.

  In keeping with her former beauty queen persona, Mom had on Gucci sunglasses, Jimmy Choo slides, capris, and was working the phone big time. Her day planner was open on the umbrella table beside the pool. That could only mean one thing. I started to make a break for the door, but she spotted me.

  “Hi, sweetie.” She mouthed the word at me, then went back to her conversation.

  For as long as I could remember Mom has jumped from one project to the next, doing whatever struck her fancy. Everything from event planning, to marathon running, to competitive sand castle sculpting.

  Mom’s idea of a new project wasn’t like everyone else’s. No need to get in there and do the grunt work herself. Not my mom. As befitting a former beauty queen, she hired someone to do it. Personal trainer for the marathon. Private coach for the sand castles. A staff of six to handle the details of the event planning.

  I was her project for a while. As her firstborn daughter I was expected to follow in her footsteps down the runway. But only fifty percent of my genes carried her beauty queen markers.

  I endured years of tap, ballet, modeling, singing, and piano lessons, with my mom coaching me at every turn. Honestly, I wasn’t very good at any of it. My mom finally gave up when, at age nine, I tried twirling fire batons in the den and set the curtains on fire.

  Luckily for everyone, my little sister came along a few years after me, a genetic duplicate of my mom. And she even liked all that stuff. Right now she was attending UCLA and doing some modeling on the side.

  My brother got his share of Mom’s beauty queen looks and an extra helping of Dad’s brains. He graduated from the Air Force Academy a few years ago and was now flying F-16s in the Middle East.

  After a few “fines, yeses, goods, and perfects” Mom hung up the phone.

  “Great news,” she declared, pushing her sunglasses up into her hair. “Everything’s set for this Saturday.”

  Note, she hasn’t asked why I’m here in the middle of the day and not at work.

  “Saturday?” I asked, though I knew I shouldn’t.

  “The charity fund-raiser,” Mom said and picked up her day planner.

  “Which charity?”

  She pursed her lips distastefully. “Something about sick people, I think.”

  Why had I come here? Why had I thought I’d get a little sympathy or support? It just went to show that I was still in shock. Yes, that was it. Despite Kirk Keegan’s encouragement, I wasn’t really over what happened.

  “Yeah, okay, Mom, I’ve got to go now,” I told her.

  “One o’clock sharp,” she called, flipping a page in her day planner. “Don’t be late.”

  “For what?”

  “You’re helping me at the event,” Mom said. “I explained my new business to you. Don’t you recall?”

  “Oh yeah. Sure.”

  I didn’t really remember, but this was easier.

  “See you Saturday,” she called and picked up the phone again.

  I headed back to my car. I desperately needed to get my friends together tonight. And I knew just the place, I decided, pulling my cell phone from my purse. As soon as everyone got off work at five, I’d have them meet me at—

  “Oh, crap….”

  My shoulders slumped and I shoved my phone into my purse again.

  I had to work at Holt’s tonight.

  I hate that job.

  Would I make it two for two today? I wondered as I pulled into a parking space outside the Holt’s store. Would I go inside only to be told—yet again today—that I’d lost my job? I mean, really, how seriously would Holt’s management take it after they spotted me on the stockroom surveillance tape lounging on the Laura Ashley bed-in-a-bag
sets? I mean, come on, I couldn’t be the only employee who ever did that.

  I got out of my car, relieved that I didn’t see Rita outside the store holding up a “Haley, You’re Fired” banner, and headed inside. It was a long, slow walk. I couldn’t stop wondering how, suddenly, a crappy second job at a crappy department store, had turned into a good thing. What had happened to my life?

  Bad as it was, it was temporary, I reminded myself. Kirk Keegan would call any minute now, give me the news that the investigation was speeding to a conclusion and I could return to Pike Warner. I’d just have to tough it out.

  I amused myself with thoughts of that Louis Vuitton organizer, and that lasted until I walked into the employee break room. Several people were already there, some eating at the tables, others lined up next to the time clock waiting for a few more minutes of their lives to tick away before they punched in. Nobody was wearing an of-course-you-can smile. They all stared at me, then glanced away.

  Oh God—just like this morning when I’d walked into the accounts payable unit at Pike Warner.

  Louis Vuitton organizer…Louis Vuitton organizer…Louis Vuitton organizer….

  Mentally, I pushed aside all other thoughts and brought that organizer into the center of my being—which wasn’t that hard, really—as I put my purse in my locker and donned my name badge.

  Two of the employees rushed up, crowding around me.

  “Holy shit, girlfriend, I heard what went down last night,” Bella said.

  Bella was tall, black, and about my age. Girlfriend had style, especially her hair. Tonight it looked like a water sprinkler. She was saving for beauty school. Bella hated everything about working at Holt’s, so we hit it off right away.

  “Is it true?” Sandy asked.

  Sandy—I could only guess that her mom was a big Grease fan—was white and about twenty years old. She had reddish hair that she usually wore in a ponytail. Strands were always coming loose, hanging around her face, so she looked like a kindergarten teacher on a Friday afternoon. Sandy had a boyfriend. He was a tattoo artist. They met on the Internet.

  I nodded. “Richard’s dead. Murdered.”

  “I heard you found him—in women’s lingerie?” Sandy said.

  “Oh yeah,” I said.

  “So it’s true?” Sandy asked, her eyes wide.

  “I knew he was a sick bastard,” Bella declared.

  “Gross!” Sandy said, then shook her head. “You really had to see Richard like that?”

  “I’d gouge my own eyes out,” Bella swore, “if I’d seen Richard wearing women’s lingerie.”

  They thought I’d found Richard actually wearing lingerie? Gross, all right.

  “Everybody’s all twisted up about Richard,” Bella reported. “I heard two people quit already. And heads are rolling.”

  “Todd, the LP guy? He got fired,” Sandy said.

  Good, I thought. Todd deserved to be fired, yet I was mildly surprised to hear it, even though I’d mentioned it to that really cute Ty Cameron last night. How unlike anything with a corporate structure to move so quickly. But since Ty was head of Loss Prevention, I guess he could do what he wanted.

  “And you know what else I heard?” Sandy said, drawing herself up.

  I knew the most juicy bit of news was coming. I eased closer.

  I love talking smack about people.

  “The actual owner of the Holt’s chain of stores is here today,” Sandy said.

  “The owner?” I echoed. I didn’t know Holt’s had an owner. I wonder if they covered that in orientation.

  Bella leaned in even closer. “And do you know who’s not here today?”

  No, wait. I was wrong. This was the juiciest piece of gossip.

  Bella looked back and forth between us; then her eyes widened and her nostrils flared a little and she said, “Glenna Webb.”

  “I hate that bitch,” Sandy said.

  I hated her too. Glenna Webb was the area manager of women’s clothing. We’d had a couple of run-ins already.

  “So what’s the deal with her not being here today?” I asked.

  Bella rolled her eyes. “Glenna was doing Richard.”

  “He’s married,” Sandy said. “And so is she.”

  I gasped. Oh God, this was good stuff.

  “He used to watch her on the store surveillance cameras,” Bella said. “I was in the security office once and saw him doing it. Now, that’s sick.”

  “Maybe things will get better around here, now that Richard’s gone,” Sandy said.

  “Don’t count on it,” Bella told her.

  They went back to their table and I got in line at the time clock. I hung back, making it a point, as always, to be the last to clock in—I offset this by being the first to clock out—and took a look at the daily work schedule clamped to a clipboard, hanging on the wall.

  I could tell this was one of Richard’s schedules because it made no sense. There was no rhyme or reason to it, just the product of a sick mind, it seemed to me. Richard made up the work schedule for the entire store and he plugged employee names into date and time slots to suit his own whim.

  No one could ever predict what day or hours they might be working, even after they requested to work only at specific times. And if Richard scheduled you to work and you couldn’t, then it was up to you to find someone to cover your shift.

  Crappy, huh?

  I saw that I was assigned to the shoe department tonight. My spirits lifted. I loved working in the shoe department because the shelves were really high and it was easy to pretend you couldn’t see the customers. Also, there was a stockroom right there at the department, and even if they didn’t have bed-in-a-bag sets to lounge on, you could stay back there a long time, pretending to find shoes for the customers.

  The door to the break room opened and Jeanette Avery, the store manager, walked in. She was easily in her fifties and might have been a nice-looking woman if it weren’t for the hideous outfits she always wore. I could see at a quick glance that it was a suit sold here at Holt’s. She always wore Holt’s clothing. It must have been in her contract; otherwise no one in their right mind would be caught in a Holt’s outfit.

  She started talking to the ten of us who’d just clocked in and I moved to a strategic location at the rear of the group so she couldn’t see me if I yawned, as she broke the news that Richard had been found dead in the stockroom last night. I guess management was taking it pretty seriously, what with this personal address from the store manager, plus a visit from the owner. There was probably a lawsuit in this somewhere—see how I truly belonged at Pike Warner?—and I decided to mention it to Kirk Keegan when he called.

  While Jeanette Avery yammered on about Richard’s death, I took a look at the employee work schedule again. About two weeks’ worth of daily schedules were on the clipboard. I flipped back to yesterday, the day of Richard’s murder, and saw my name near the bottom of the page. Richard’s name was at the top, of course. Rita was listed too, along with Evelyn and that girl Julie, who sat at the front door handing out credit applications. Glenna Webb was there also. Lots of other people were too, of course, but I didn’t recognize their names. I’d only worked here a few days and, so far, I’d done a pretty good job of blocking out most everyone and everything.

  The crowd began to move toward the door and I realized Jeanette had finished speaking. I turned to go, then saw Rita across the room, glaring at me. I glared right back, of course, and left the break room.

  I didn’t get far. Jeanette Avery stepped in front of me. For a couple of heart-stopping seconds I thought she was going to tell me I was fired, but she didn’t.

  “I wanted to tell you personally that I’m sorry for what you went through last night,” Jeanette said in a low voice. She shuddered and I got the idea she was really upset about it.

  It didn’t seem like the best time to tell her I thought Richard was a prick or that most everyone in the store—including me—was actually glad he was dead. So I said what my mom ha
d taught me to say in these situations.

  “Thank you for your concern,” I told her.

  Jeanette seemed satisfied with my response. She drew a little breath and straightened her shoulders.

  “The store owner is here today,” she said. “He would like to speak with you.”

  The store owner wanted to talk to me? Personally? I wondered if I was getting some sort of award. I deserved one. I mean, I had kept the store employees calm last night, got the police here without causing a major scene that could have frightened the store patrons into a full-blown panic. I probably saved the company millions in lawsuits.

  “He’s in my office,” Jeanette said, gesturing down the hallway.

  I turned, saw an Armani suit and silk tie, and had a Pike Warner flashback. A gorgeous suit with a European cut and—oh, wow. Oh, wow. Ty Cameron was wearing it. Loss Prevention must pay better than I thought. And oh my God, he looked handsome.

  “Hey, Ty,” I called and gave him a little finger wave.

  He nodded his head but didn’t smile.

  “Go ahead,” Jeanette said, urgently. “He’s very busy today.”

  “Go where?” I asked.

  She pinched her lips together and bobbed her brows toward Ty. “Go talk to the store owner.”

  “But that’s not—”

  I looked at Ty and a really big knot hardened in my stomach. My palms started to sweat.

  “That’s Ty Cameron,” I said to Jeanette. “He’s the—”

  “Store owner,” Jeanette said through tight lips.

  “But I thought…isn’t he the…”

  Oh God.

  I turned to Ty. He stood in the doorway of Jeanette’s private office waiting for me, and holding a videocassette in his hand.

  Oh, crap.

  CHAPTER 5

  The first thing I did was check the desk. No personnel file with my name on the tab. A good sign, but I couldn’t let down my guard.

  “Please, have a seat,” Ty said, gesturing to the chair in front of the desk.