Handbags and Homicide

by Dorothy Howell

  “Yes,” I said, finally—thank God—coming up with my keys. “But I’m only here to handle the business end of things. I have to go.”

  “You’re not coming inside?” he asked, and sounded a little—something. Surprised, disappointed, I don’t know what.

  “No,” I said, quickly.

  “Why not?” he asked, and stepped in front of me.

  Because it was his mom’s house, way worse than its being Drew Barrymore’s house. And I didn’t want him to see my mom. And some of Mom’s friends were here, so she was destined to mention my job at Pike Warner (after she’d worked her way through my brother and sister’s update), and somebody would ask how I liked it there, and then what would I say? And how would I explain to Ty why I hadn’t mentioned that I worked there—sort of—when I saw him that day at the office? Plus, for all I knew, everyone here actually knew Drew and would assume that I did too, and would ask how I enjoyed the Notorious bag she’d given me, and what would I say to that—with my mom listening?

  There were a million reasons not to stay—and I couldn’t give Ty a single one of them.

  Yet there he stood, looking at me, waiting.

  Well, I didn’t have to give him a reason, I decided. It was none of his business, anyway.

  “Long story,” I said, and managed a you-know-how-it-is eyebrow bob.

  I ducked around him and went to the driver’s-side door. He got there first and opened it, but not wide enough that I could get inside, thanks to the florist’s van parked next to me.

  “I noticed you haven’t gotten your fender fixed yet,” Ty said.

  Oh, Christ. That day I’d hit the retaining wall after I left Pike Warner, and the stupid story I’d made up about rescuing the dog.

  “Wasn’t your uncle going to fix it?” he asked.

  Was every word I’d ever said to this man somehow emblazoned on his brain? Didn’t he have something more important to remember?

  “He was going to, but something came up,” I told him. It was the quickest blow-off I could think of.

  Ty frowned. “So important he couldn’t fix his own niece’s car?”

  “It was an emergency,” I said, edging closer to my car door. “He had to take his wife to the—the hospital.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  Christ.

  “She…she went into labor.”

  Ty smiled. “Boy or girl?”

  “Girl,” I said, nodding so that I looked confident. “It was a girl.”

  “Please don’t tell me they named her Pancake.”

  “Of course they didn’t name her Pancake!”

  I batted his hands away from my door, squeezed inside, and whipped out of the spot, nearly clipping a delivery van. I caught a glimpse of Ty as I sped away. Was he grinning?

  Bastard.

  I hit the freeway headed toward—I don’t know where I was headed but I kept driving. A million thoughts were jumbled in my head, but the one I kept coming back to was Ty.

  Why did I keep seeing him everywhere I went? What kind of crazy coincidence was that?

  Well, I guess it wasn’t a coincidence that I saw him at Pike Warner, since his family had done business there for generations. If I’d gone to fifteen more often, I’d probably have seen him there before. And lots of people go to Old Pasadena on Friday night. The thing just now at his mom’s fund-raiser, okay, that was just sort of weird, but not completely off the scale, considering that my mom’s old-money family routinely gets involved with other old-money families. But, still, something bothered me about all of it.

  Then it hit me: what if Ty were keeping tabs on me—for the police?

  Ty seemed like an easygoing guy, but let’s face it, he was the fifth generation in charge of a huge retail chain. Money—big money—was at stake, not to mention reputations, jobs, future income, and future generations. An employee had been murdered in one of his stores, at the one time of the year when retail outlets made the profits that would carry them through the lean times of the year.

  I’d wondered before if Ty thought it odd that I wore Chanel and conducted business at Pike Warner, yet worked at Holt’s, and I’d sort of mentally blown right past it. Now the thought gave me a sick feeling in my stomach.

  Maybe Ty thought I had another reason for working there. An agenda. Revenge, maybe. A personal vendetta.

  Against Richard.

  Was that why Ty had asked Evelyn questions about me? Was that why I “ran into him” so often, why he took me to lunch that day?

  Maybe he thought I was involved with Richard’s murder.

  And maybe he was working with Detective Madison to prove it.

  CHAPTER 13

  Thanksgiving was just a few days away but you wouldn’t know it by the gorgeous afternoon sunshine at the Grove, one of L.A.’s ultrahip shopping destinations. The outdoor plaza featured kiosks, benches, flowers, and restaurants, surrounded by some of the priciest stores in the city. A trolley looped the plaza, taking shoppers to the adjoining farmers’ market with its kitschy shops, souvenirs stands, and food stalls. The diversity of the place brought in all sorts of people.

  Including me.

  And Detective Shuman, I realized, as I saw him enter the Macy’s store.

  At first, it irked me that I’d seen him. I’d come here to spend a few hours Christmas shopping before I had to report for work at Holt’s tonight. Seeing Shuman reminded me of everything I’d been trying to forget these past few days, since the fiasco at that stupid fund-raiser last Saturday.

  But maybe this was a sign, I thought. After all, what were the chances I’d run into Shuman? Especially here. It probably wasn’t the sort of place a homicide detective could routinely afford to shop. Plus, it was a weekday, so he was working, and he must have ducked in here to get something special.

  It was destiny, I decided.

  I hurried inside to catch up with him.

  I doubted he was headed for the men’s clothing department, so I checked out the perfume counter and found him gazing at the display cases, looking uncomfortable.

  “Girlfriend’s birthday,” I said, coming up beside him.

  Shuman turned, surprised to see me. But he recognized me immediately. I’m not sure having a homicide detective know you on sight is such a good thing, but that was what my life had turned into.

  “How’d you know?” he asked.

  “Elementary, my dear Shuman,” I told him. “You’re not married—no wedding ring, plus a wife would never let you out of the house wearing that tie—therefore you’re not here for an anniversary present. You wouldn’t buy your mom or sister expensive perfume, so it must be a girlfriend. The next gift-giving occasion is Christmas, and there isn’t a man on the planet who shops any sooner than the week of Christmas Eve, so it has to be a birthday.”

  Shuman seemed impressed. He gestured at the display. “She mentioned something and I wrote it down, but I left it at home. Now I’m not sure which one to buy her. I thought if I came here and looked at the bottles, I’d remember.”

  Shuman looked kind of handsome today. He had on a tweed jacket that complemented his trousers and shirt. And I liked it that he’d written down his girlfriend’s favorite perfume.

  “We’ll figure it out,” I said. “Tell me about her.”

  “She’s awesome.” He got a dreamy look in his eye. “Smart, funny, pretty. She just went to work in the district attorney’s office. She’ll be a judge someday.”

  She was probably only a few years older than me, and already she’d finished law school. Wow.

  “How long have you two been dating?” I asked.

  “Two months, three weeks, two days.”

  I could see Shuman was taken with her, something beyond just a woman he was dating, and that required a special gift.

  “Forget the perfume. Come with me,” I said. We left the store.

  “The three-month gift is crucial,” I explained as we walked. “Too soon for lingerie, a little too late for perfume. You want to give
her something special, memorable, and I know just the thing.”

  I took him to the Burberry store. He hesitated in the doorway.

  “I can’t afford something from here,” he said.

  I figured he couldn’t spend five hundred bucks on a purse—though it is a very worthwhile purchase—so I took him to the counter and asked the clerk to show him a Burberry scarf.

  “Cashmere,” I said and held it out.

  He looked at the tag. “It’s over two hundred dollars.”

  “It fits her conservative, attorney image. It makes a statement. She’ll love it.”

  “I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m sure she’d like the perfume.”

  “The gift isn’t about her, Shuman, it’s about you,” I said. “Think about it. What’s going to happen when she gets to work with it? All her friends will notice, they’ll crowd around, they’ll be jealous, they’ll ask who gave it to her. And she’s going to stand there with a proud smile on her face and tell them her boyfriend gave it to her. Everyone will be impressed, not only with the scarf, but with the man she’s chosen to date. See? It’s really a reflection on you.”

  Shuman hesitated. He looked at the scarf, at me, then at the scarf again. I could see him thinking, processing what I’d said. I guess you didn’t get to be a homicide detective by believing everything everybody told you.

  “I’ll take it,” he finally said.

  The clerk wrapped the scarf in their gorgeous beige gift box with BURBERRY embossed in gold letters and tied it with their luxurious ribbon, then slipped it into their impressive shopping bag.

  We left the store and Shuman stopped. I thought he was having second thoughts about the scarf, but I was wrong.

  “I can’t talk to you about the investigation,” he told me.

  “I didn’t help you with the scarf to get information,” I said, which I sincerely meant. Yet I saw no reason to waste this opportunity, since he’d brought up the subject. “And I didn’t kill Richard.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he said, sounding weary. “But Madison…he’s old school. He’s retiring at the first of the year and—”

  “And he wants to solve this case before he goes?” I asked, stunned. Great. Just what I needed. Some old guy wanting to leave a clean desk behind when he walks off the job.

  “Other people had a strong motive for wanting Richard dead,” I said.

  He looked concerned now. “Stay out of it. You’ll wind up in more trouble.”

  “I’m a murder suspect,” I said. “I don’t know how it can get much worse than that.”

  Shuman shrugged. “We’re looking at the neighbor. They were having an affair.”

  I already knew that, but at least now he was talking about the case. And I realized what had been bothering me all along about the neighbor’s supposed involvement.

  “Richard’s neighbors were in Holt’s stockroom?” I asked.

  Shuman didn’t say anything so I figured I was on to something. I waited, hoping I could outlast him. I did.

  “There was a truck unloading around the time of Richard’s murder,” Shuman said. “Anybody could have come and gone through the loading dock doors. The camera back there is limited. Big blind spots. So the stockroom surveillance video is—”

  “Worthless,” I said.

  Shuman nodded reluctantly. “Of some value, but not conclusive.”

  So maybe it was a Holt’s employee who murdered Richard, and maybe it wasn’t. I didn’t feel any better knowing that.

  “How long was Richard dead before I found him?” I asked.

  “About an hour,” Shuman said.

  “Prints on the murder weapon?”

  “Dozens.”

  I should have known that, given how many people in the store use those U-boats for moving merchandise.

  “Look, I’ve got to get back to work,” Shuman said.

  I could tell I’d pushed him too far, but so what? I need information and he had it.

  “Just one more thing,” I said. “Please tell me you and Madison are still looking for suspects.”

  “We’re working the case,” Shuman said. His eyes narrowed. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

  I wasn’t sure what leads he had or which suspects he knew about, and I wasn’t sure if he’d listen to my list of names. Since I was a suspect myself, wouldn’t my info be, well, suspect?

  Besides, I didn’t like the idea of naming names, possibly getting an innocent person into trouble. I was in the glare of the detectives’ spotlight myself; I wouldn’t wish that off on anybody—anybody who wasn’t guilty, that is. And how many times could I “cry wolf” to Shuman and expect him to follow up? I decided to keep my ideas to myself until I had something to back them up with.

  “Yeah,” I said and pointed to the Burberry shopping bag. “Start saving now. You can get her a matching wallet for Christmas.”

  He grinned, raised the bag in a little salute, then left.

  “Let me know how she likes it,” I called.

  I stood there for a moment looking at him, then at the store.

  “What the hell…” I muttered.

  I went inside and bought myself a scarf—with a matching wallet.

  “You want to go to a hair show?” Bella asked me.

  “A what?”

  “A hair show.”

  We were standing in line at the time clock, waiting for our shift to start. Bella had outdone herself with her do today. It looked sort of like a tsunami wave crashing up the back of her head.

  “You know, a show where they preview the latest hairdos and all the new beauty products,” Bella said. She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and flipped it open. “Give me your number. I’ll call you.”

  “Sure,” I said, and rattled off my number as she punched it into her phone. The line moved toward the time clock. “When is it?”

  “No cell phones on the sales floor.” Rita’s voice blared from across the break room.

  “She’s so good at riding asses, she ought to get a job at the rodeo,” Bella muttered.

  “She’s already got clown clothes,” I added, and we both laughed.

  We punched our time cards and went out onto the sales floor.

  “Where are you going?” Bella asked.

  “I’m in Housewares tonight.”

  “No, you’re in the meeting,” Bella told me. “Didn’t you read the notice by the time clock?”

  There was a notice by the time clock?

  “I’ll call you about the show,” Bella said, and headed toward the front of the store.

  Apparently, a lot of us were scheduled for the meeting so I followed the crowd to the training room. Sandy fell into step beside me.

  “So, how’s it going with Mr. Sensitive, the tattoo artist?” I asked.

  Sandy looked a little miffed. “Do you know what I found out? I found out he has a profile on match-dotcom, and it’s been there ever since we started dating.”

  “He didn’t take it down while you two were going out? What a jerk,” I said. “So you’re dumping him, right?”

  “I read his profile. He’s really an interesting guy,” Sandy said. “I’m kind of lucky to have him for a boyfriend.”

  Okay, the closest thing I have to a psych degree is the two-day Oprah marathon on Lifetime I’d watched last spring when I called in sick for cramps, but, jeez, this wasn’t right.

  “Sandy,” I said and tried to look wise. “You can do better.”

  “You just don’t understand what it’s like to be an artist,” Sandy said, sounding even wiser.

  That’s for damn sure.

  Inside the training room I looked for that big guy from men’s clothing, hoping I could get the seat behind him and hide, but he wasn’t there. But I snagged a spot on the back row between Colleen, the sort-of retarded girl, and Grace, the poor sap who was permanently assigned to the customer service booth.

  The woman in front of me turned around and I saw that it was Shannon, the lead
in the greeting cards section, the one I’d tried to run down with the vacuum cleaner.

  She narrowed her eyes at me.

  “Thanks a lot, Haley.” She sneered.

  What grade are we in?

  “On account of you, we’re all stuck in these meetings,” Shannon said.

  Just because you’re in a meeting doesn’t mean you have to pay attention. Was I the only one who understood that?

  “And we’re working longer shifts because nobody wants seasonal jobs here,” Shannon added. “You shouldn’t have made such a big deal out of finding Richard dead. You should have kept it quiet.”

  Shannon gave me one last scathing look, put her nose in the air, and whipped around.

  “You found Richard?” Colleen asked. She gazed at me as if I were a front-page tabloid celebrity. “Did he really have on spandex leggings?”

  Rita pushed her way into the aisle and stood over me.

  “You’re training in the customer service booth tonight,” she told me.

  “What?” I bolted upright in my chair.

  “It’s your new assignment.”

  “I don’t want to work in customer service.”

  “Well, you’re going to.” Rita sneered and walked away.

  God, I hate that bitch.

  And I hated the customer service booth. It was the worst place in the entire store. I couldn’t work there. There was absolutely no way to hide from customers and you had to actually wait on them.

  Rita knew I didn’t like it there. She’d managed to put me there, somehow, and she’d done it to make my life miserable.

  As if it could get any more miserable.

  I realized that Colleen was still staring at me, still looking awestruck, still waiting for an answer to her question.

  “No. Richard wasn’t wearing spandex leggings,” I told her. “It was a teddy and the name ‘Rita’ was embroidered across the butt.”

  The room quieted as Jeanette Avery came in. I don’t know how anybody expected me to pay attention in a meeting now, after just hearing devastating news.

  The customer service booth? It was the crappiest job on the planet. I had to get out of it, somehow.