I couldn’t chance it. So I’d done what any crazed, obsessive, handbag whore would have done: whipped out my debit card and spent my rent money.
“Hey, trouble,” a man said.
Jack Bishop walked toward me. Oh my God, he looked awesome. Jeans, a snug crew-neck sweater, and a sport coat. Great shades of blue and gray.
And I looked like crap. I suddenly remembered that I’d left home in a hurry this morning. No shower. Little makeup. Yikes.
Jack took the bags from my hands and walked along with me to my car. I popped the trunk and he put them inside.
Then he turned to me, a dark—smoldering?—look in his eyes.
“You owe me,” he said. “Last night. Remember?”
Of course I remembered. The contact info he’d gotten for me for Jeanette Avery, Ty, and Sarah Covington. Jack had said he’d tell me what sort of payment he wanted. And when.
“I’m ready to collect,” Jack said. “Now.”
CHAPTER 19
I haven’t done this in a long time—a really long time. And it shows. I’m out of breath. My heart is racing. My thighs are killing me.
I stole a peek at Jack—he’d told me not to look at him—and he’s reared back enjoying himself. And why shouldn’t he? I’m the one doing all the work.
Sweat runs into my eyes. I swipe it away. I want to quit, but I can’t. Not yet. Not at this crucial moment. With a quick burst of energy, I give it all I’ve got, then—whew!—we’re done.
With a round of polite applause from the sideline, I jogged over to the net and extended my hand. The dirtbag, known here at the Foothills Tennis Club as Aaron Carson and elsewhere as Aaron Hasselhoff, shook and threw me a smug smile.
“Good game,” he said. “Just work on that backhand.”
“Yeah, I will,” I said, panting like a dog. “Thanks…for the…last-minute lesson.”
“No problem.” Aaron gave me a quick once-over. “Any time.”
I wished I could come up with a witty slam, but I was partially brain-dead from lack of oxygen. The bastard deserved it. Pretending to be David Hasselhoff’s brother. Cheating lonely old women out of their money. Faking a fall, then suing.
Aaron gave me a salute with his racket and jogged off the court. I dragged myself to the umbrella tables nearby and opened my bag, struggling not to look at Jack, cool and relaxed, sitting at the next table with a frosty mug of beer in front of him.
“Nice form,” he said, gazing in the other direction.
“I’ve played for…years,” I said, forcing myself not to knead the stitch in my side. “Get what…you needed?”
“Perfect.” Jack opened his palm and I saw the tiny camera. “Picture perfect.”
When Jack and I were out scouting Jeanette Avery’s house and I’d seen the photo of the con man Aaron Hasselhoff, I’d recognized him at once. He’d changed his appearance after disappearing from the scene in the San Diego area. Mustache shaved, hair shorter and dyed blond. New name too. He must have felt pretty secure working as the tennis pro here at the club. It was very old—my mom’s family helped found it—and very exclusive—I was only a member because I was born into the family.
That night, Jack and I had come up with this plan, but I hadn’t expected him to show up at Holt’s this afternoon. I’d signed Jack in as my guest, scheduled a tennis lesson, and run my ass off while he snapped all the pics he needed for his client’s lawsuit.
I pulled a towel from my bag and wiped my brow.
“So,” I said, “I’ve paid my debt to you. Now you owe me.”
Jack sipped his beer, then turned to me. His gaze felt like a laser blast going through me.
“Are you ready to collect?” he asked, his voice as rich as the belt of whiskey I could have used at the moment.
I started to heat up all over again, but managed a casual shrug.
“I’ll tell you what I want,” I said. “And when I want it.”
Jack nodded slowly, then finished his beer and rose from the chair. He stopped in front of me and slipped a folded piece of paper into my tennis shirt between my breasts.
“You owe me,” he said, and walked away.
Oh my God, he’s so hot.
My knees gave out and I collapsed into a chair as Jack disappeared around the corner. With what little strength I had, I pulled the paper out of my top.
Phone numbers and addresses. What the…?
Then my heart jumped. Ty’s address. And Sarah’s. Jack had gotten them for me.
Now my brain blasted into fast-forward. For a few seconds I wasn’t sure I wanted to look at them. What if Ty’s and Sarah’s address were the same?
Since my suspense factor was really low, I unfolded the paper.
Sarah Covington, vice president of marketing for Holt’s Department Store, resided in Glendale. I didn’t recognize the name of her street. Ty lived in Pasadena, in an apartment on Colorado Boulevard. I knew the place. I remember when the building opened. It was a really cool complex where a two-bedroom unit ran about four grand per month.
Wow, what a relief. Sarah lived in Glendale, and Ty in Pasadena. I was almost giddy.
My mind raced on. That’s why I’d seen them in Pasadena the night Marcie and I were shopping and having dinner at the Cheesecake Factory. Ty lived there. He and Sarah weren’t on a date, weren’t boyfriend/girlfriend, they weren’t window-shopping, or having sex. They were simply—
What?
Well, I didn’t know exactly what it meant, except that they weren’t seriously involved enough to live together.
It was too much to think about in my weakened condition. I grabbed my bag and went home.
My cell phone rang as I pulled out of my apartment complex. It was nearly 10:00 a.m. and already the street was crowded with cars headed toward the shopping areas near my home. Saturday. It would be like this right up until Christmas Eve. And I’d be in the thick of it, as long as I worked at Holt’s anyway.
I dug around in my purse for my phone as I raced through a yellow light, and finally came up with it. For an instant I thought it was my mom’s number on the caller ID, but realized it was just my guilty conscience at work. I still had to bring her the Edible Elegance paperwork from the fund-raiser, but I’d been putting it off.
I answered the phone. It was Marcie.
“Your problem is solved,” she announced, as I cut in front of an SUV. I almost asked her “which problem,” since they seemed to have piled up on me lately, but I didn’t. If any one of them were solved, it would be great.
“We’re having a purse party,” Marcie said. “You and me. At my office building. I’ll reserve the big conference room, send out e-mail invitations, and post a flyer in every break room. It’ll be great.”
A million questions zinged through my mind, but Marcie didn’t give me a chance to ask them.
“I don’t know why I didn’t think of this sooner,” she said. “We can get purses for pennies on the dollar, sell them for half their retail value, and make a fortune.”
“You mean fake bags?” I asked, panic jolting me. “Counterfeits?”
“Replica bags,” Marcie corrected.
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“Not if we’re up front about saying they’re knockoffs. All we have to do is explain that a purse is, for example, made in the same style as a Dior clutch, or whatever. That’s all,” Marcie said.
I flashed on beating Richard’s murder rap, only to be imprisoned for dealing in counterfeit merchandise.
“You’re sure?” I asked.
“Well, yeah. Pretty sure,” Marcie said. “Don’t worry. People do it all the time. I know where we can buy the purses. Zillions of them. In stores, shops, out on the street. It’s no big deal. We don’t need a wholesale license, or anything. Just cash. What do you think?”
I thought it seemed too good to be true.
“And you think the women at your office building will buy fake bags?” I asked. The concept went against my grain, big time.
; “Are you kidding?” Marcie said. “I just mentioned a purse party in the break room yesterday, and a dozen women nearly stampeded over me wanting first chance at the bags. I’m telling you, Haley, this will work.”
Most things that sound too good to be true usually are. But Marcie sure sounded as if she knew what she was talking about.
“All we have to do is buy the purses,” Marcie said. “We’ll go fifty-fifty on everything. What do you say?”
I didn’t know the first thing about hosting a purse party, where to buy them, how much they’d cost, how much profit could be made, or whether I could get arrested for being involved. I would be totally in the dark with this.
“Sounds great,” I said, as I whipped into the Holt’s parking lot.
“I figure we’ll need about four hundred dollars each,” Marcie said. “We’ll triple—maybe even quadruple—our investment. You’ll see.”
We agreed on a day for the purse shopping trip, and hung up. I put my phone away and sat in my car for a minute, looking up at the blue Holt’s sign.
Four hundred dollars? Wow. Where was I going to get that kind of money? I’d spent my savings—my rent money—on the gorgeous handbags I’d bought yesterday—courtesy of my good friend Craig—so things were a little tight. More than a little tight, really. But not so bad that I wouldn’t take a chance on quadrupling my money selling knockoff handbags.
I heaved a heavy sigh, still looking at the Holt’s sign. Besides, I had my job here, plus my GSB&T credit card that would arrive any day, and I’d be called back to work at Pike Warner at any minute now.
My spirits lifted. I felt sort of like an entrepreneur, wheeling and dealing in a high-stakes business venture. Yeah, this was great, I decided as I got out of my car. I’d score a ton of cash in this purse deal. And who’s to say that one party would be all we’d have? Marcie and I could have these parties everywhere. We’d be rich.
I got to the break room just as the early-morning shift was clocking out. The store was opening at 6:00 a.m. this weekend, way too early for me. I punched in and headed for the customer service booth, but Jeanette stopped me before I went inside.
“Could I see you for a moment?” she asked quietly.
“Sure,” I said, glad to avoid the long line awaiting me, and followed her down the hall. Inside her office, Jeanette closed the door and took a seat behind her desk.
“Please, sit down,” she said, gesturing.
This all seemed eerily familiar. Unpleasantly familiar. Jeanette, in her fuchsia and gold plaid suit, somehow morphed into Mrs. Drexler. Oh my God, was I going to get fired?
No, no, I realized, as I sat down. This had to be something good. And I knew just what it was. I’d talked to Craig about working in the accessories department selling the designer handbags. Obviously, he’d been so impressed with my extensive knowledge he’d gone to Jeanette right away, told her what a rare find I was and how I would be an immense asset to his department, and asked—no, begged, probably—that I be reassigned.
And I was getting a raise.
My heart thumped a few quick times.
Yes, I was getting a raise. That had to be it. With my new, more important position in the accessories department, I deserved a substantial raise. Maybe I’d ask for a promotion too. And a percentage of the department’s profits. Wow, that would be so cool. If I got that, I’d sell the hell out of those bags. Maybe I’d even perfect my of-course-you-can smile. I’d earn so much money I could—
“Haley,” Jeanette said. “Something’s come up.”
“Yes?” I said, trying to hold in my smile so as not to spoil her surprise.
“There have been some complaints,” she said. “About you.”
The smile froze on my face. I stopped breathing.
Jeanette didn’t seem to notice.
“A number of complaints, actually. From customers. And from members of our management team.”
This could not be happening.
Jeanette reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a personnel file. My personnel file.
No. Not again. Not here at Holt’s.
She opened my file. “I’ve written up an employee action form that I’ll go over with you. Then you’ll sign it, acknowledging that—”
“I’m not acknowledging a goddamn thing!” I sprang to my feet.
Jeanette rocked back in her chair.
“Who complained about me?” I demanded.
“Haley, let’s try to remain calm—”
“Who was it!” I screamed.
“Craig,” Jeanette blurted out. Her face went white. “He—he said he’d seen you roaming the store, and—and he said that a number of customers had come to him, complaining that you weren’t assisting them.”
“Yeah, he saw me in the store, but I was on my break and he knew that,” I shouted. “And these supposed complaints from customers? Why the hell would a customer go to Craig about me? Did any of them come to you? Or any other store manager?”
“Well…”
“Did they?” I shouted.
“No,” Jeanette said quickly.
“Then it’s all crap!” I told her. “You know what, Jeanette? You’re just lucky I still work here. I found a dead body in your stockroom, for God’s sake. I worked on Thanksgiving Day. I’ve covered nearly every department in this store, I’ve cashiered, I’m in customer service booth hell—and I even ran the vacuum cleaner one night! So don’t come to me with some half-ass complaints about my work!”
I stormed out of the office and slammed the door behind me.
My heart pounded so hard I heard it in my ears. My hands shook. I couldn’t believe I’d gone off like that to Jeanette.
Why hadn’t I done that to Mrs. Drexler? Maybe I’d still have my job there.
But I’d really laid in to Jeanette—and she was the store manager.
I froze. Oh my God, I just told off the store manager. What the hell was I thinking?
I felt dizzy. I braced my arm against the wall to steady myself.
She was going to write me up—the prelude to firing me—for real this time. Firing me!
Then I had a terrifying thought. What if she knew I suspected her of Richard’s murder? Had she somehow learned that I’d been in the Northridge store asking questions? Did she know I’d stolen the store directory, gotten her home address, gone to her house?
How could she have known that?
She couldn’t have, I decided. No, it was impossible. Oh God, I hoped it was.
So did that mean that Craig had actually complained about me? Why would he do that? I’d gone out of my way to offer to work for him, help him sell those purses. I thought he liked me. He’d let me have as many of the handbags as I wanted.
This made no sense. Any of it. The only reliable fact in this mess was that I was about to get fired from Holt’s. Sure, I’d blown right by Jeanette just now, but that didn’t mean this was the end of it. She’d just document more derogatory info about me, pile on the complaints until the evidence was so compelling I couldn’t fight it off.
I couldn’t lose this job. It was my only income. I just spent my rent money, and I was on the hook with Marcie for four hundred bucks worth of fake purses. How was I going to live?
Wait.
I dashed down the hallway. At the customer service booth, Grace tried to wave me down.
“Somebody is looking for you,” she called.
“In a minute,” I said, and dashed into the break room. That girl who had lost so much weight was at the table eating fruit. Fruit! Somebody told me she’d lost another five pounds. God, I hate her!
I grabbed my purse from my locker, dug out my phone, called directory assistance for the number of the Golden State Bank and Trust, and tried to calm down. I couldn’t talk to them if I was all hyped up like this. It’s simply not the way things are done at GSB&T.
I took several deep breaths while my life flashed in front of my eyes and I wove my way through the telephone maze to the customer service depar
tment. I got a human on the line right away. Good sign. Especially on a Saturday.
“This is Haley Randolph calling,” I said, using my I’m-better-than-you voice. “I’d like to find out when I can expect to receive my credit card.”
“Certainly, Miss Randolph. One moment, please.”
Some dreadful classical music played while I waited. My palm was so sweaty I thought I might drop the phone. I had to get that credit card soon. If it was ready, I’d tell them I would come down and pick it up. I needed that credit card. If I didn’t get it immediately, I was sunk.
Oh God, why had I spent my rent money on those handbags?
“Miss Randolph?” This was someone different. An older man. He sounded like a supervisor.
Oh, crap. Did this mean they decided not to give me the credit card? No, no, it couldn’t be!
“I’m Mr. Olsen, vice president,” he said.
Why was I talking to a vice president? This couldn’t be good.
“I have your file right here,” he went on. “Thank you for so graciously accepting our credit card offer. We’re so pleased to have someone of your caliber banking here with us.”
What the hell is this old guy talking about?
“Yeah, sure. You’re welcome,” I said. “I just need to find out if I can expect the card by Monday. I’m—I’m leaving town—the country, really.”
“Permanently?” Mr. Olsen asked, sounding a little concerned.
Oh no. Now he thinks I’m going to take his credit card and skip the country.
“No, no,” I said, trying to sound light and airy. “Just…just going abroad…for the holidays. Same as last year.”
Mr. Olsen chuckled. “Of course. Well, let me look at your paperwork. Yes, I see it right here. Everything is in order, and I’m pleased to say you can expect to receive our credit card by the second week of January.”
January? January?
“But I need—that is, I was hoping to get it sooner,” I said, trying not to sound desperate.
Mr. Olsen chuckled again, a don’t-you-know-anything-about-business chuckle. “That’s the best we can do.”
Handbags and Homicide Page 18
