Handbags and Homicide

by Dorothy Howell

  So now I’m the bathroom monitor?

  “There’s a sign in there?” Grace asked, pointing toward the restroom.

  “Mr. Cameron thought it was a great idea,” Rita informed us.

  Bella came out of the break room. I guess she was feeling tropical today because her hair was styled like a pineapple.

  “You got the goods?” she called.

  “You bet,” I said, and she continued toward the sales floor.

  “Purses?” Grace asked.

  I’d told Bella that I had knockoff handbags for sale, since she’d mentioned it to me on Thanksgiving Day. I didn’t know word had gotten around.

  “Do you have Chloe?” Grace asked, and her eyes got this faraway, dreamy look that I could totally appreciate. “I’d love to have a Chloe tote.”

  “What’s this all about?” Rita demanded.

  “Haley’s selling faux designer bags,” Grace said.

  “That’s illegal,” Rita declared.

  “There’s no such thing as the purse police,” I told her.

  “You’ve never been to a purse party? They’re so much fun. Women are crazy for those bags,” Grace said, then turned to me. “I’d love to have a party, Haley. I know at least fifteen girls who’d come. You’ll make a fortune—I promise.”

  “Yeah, that would be cool,” I said. Wow, maybe Marcie was right. We could make a part-time business out of this.

  Then I noticed Rita’s eyes boring into me. I didn’t think she was contemplating buying a purse from me. More like she intended to find out if the purse police really existed, and turn me in.

  I hate her.

  The phone rang. I answered it. A customer asked what time we closed. I hung up without telling her, and turned to Rita. “They need you at register four.”

  She hurried away.

  I went into the bathroom and ripped down the sign.

  When I came out I caught a glimpse of Ty going into the security office. No one was in line at the customer service booth, so I headed down the hallway.

  As far as I knew, Holt’s still hadn’t hired a loss prevention person. Store management was taking turns watching the monitors. I’m not sure the store was all that anxious to catch shoplifters, for now anyway. After the publicity of Richard’s murder, the last thing they probably wanted was cop cars out front with lights flashing and somebody being escorted from the store in handcuffs. Not a good way to lure Christmas shoppers.

  I’d never been inside the security office and always wondered what went on in there, so I slipped through the doorway after Ty.

  He closed the door, seemingly unconcerned that I was in there with him learning the dark secrets of the Holt’s security system. Maybe because we already knew some of each other’s secrets.

  The room wasn’t all that big, but it was packed with video monitors and racks of recorders; wires, cords, and cables ran everywhere. A shelving unit on the far wall held hundreds of carefully labeled videocassettes. Grainy, black-and-white views of the exterior and interior of the store glowed on the screens in the dimly lit room.

  I didn’t know if this was state-of-the-art equipment. I doubted it. The system had been set up to catch shoplifters, not a murderer.

  “How’s it going out there?” Ty asked.

  “Busy,” I said, then couldn’t resist the opportunity. “Lots of complaints today about that sign in the restrooms. Customers said whoever came up with that idea must have been a complete moron. I took it down.”

  Ty shrugged. “It was worth a try.”

  “So, this is the security office,” I said, looking over the monitors. Cameras covered most of the front of the store, plus the parking lot. There was a single camera on the loading dock, and the angle seemed off center, a little. Cameras over each checkout register and the customer service booth caught everything. Every department was surveilled, but I noticed a few blind spots. I saw Bella at register two, Sophia Garcia helping a woman in the shoe department, Grace in the customer service booth.

  And there, big as life, were the monitors showing the entrance to the stockroom where I’d been sitting on the king-size Laura Ashley bed-in-a-bag sets just before Richard was murdered.

  Weird, knowing that someone—anyone—who happened to be in this office could see most everything in and around the store. Then I realized this was how Ty had known I was crying in the stockroom the other night. He’d seen me on the video monitor.

  It was kind of nice thinking he’d known I was upset and come to help, that he hadn’t just happened into the stock room at the moment. But then, I couldn’t help wondering who else had been in this room watching me, and that kind of creeped me out.

  “Do you catch many shoplifters watching these things?” I asked.

  Ty hit a couple of keys on the keyboard, then moved the joystick, changing the angle on one of the screens.

  “We rely heavily on the sales personnel on the floor,” he said. “When they see someone acting suspicious, they call and we can watch them from here. It’s an important part of the job.”

  We were supposed to be watching for shoplifters? They probably covered that in orientation.

  Ty studied the monitors, and I studied him—he looked way sexy in the dim light—then he pointed at one of the screens. “See that?”

  I saw a teenage girl in the juniors department, flipping through the racks.

  “She just put a top into her handbag,” Ty said.

  I gasped and leaned closer, and saw the big tote on her arm. She glanced around, slid another top off the hanger, and slipped it into her bag.

  “Oh my God!” I exclaimed. “She’s taking all kinds of stuff.”

  “We lose hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of merchandise from theft every year,” Ty said.

  I figured it must have been more last year, with those high-priced game systems that had been shoplifted from Craig’s department, but didn’t think Ty would like to be reminded of it.

  “I’m going out there, and tell her to put that stuff back.” I was outraged. I couldn’t believe this girl—no more than fourteen—was actually stealing.

  Okay, I’d done a few bad things—well, yeah, more than a few—but I’d never, absolutely never, stolen anything.

  “Hang on,” Ty said, sounding way too reasonable, watching the other monitors now. “We have to be careful. That girl didn’t get here by herself. She might have a mom here somewhere with hundreds of dollars of merchandise in her cart. We don’t want to lose a big sale, and alienate a good customer, for the sake of a kid and a couple of tops.”

  “Screw that,” I said. I was amped up, ready to roll, ready to get out there, yank those clothes out of that girl’s bag, and toss her out the front door.

  Ty turned to me, looking intrigued, or something. “Do you always get this excited about things?”

  “Don’t you ever get excited about things?” I countered, and flashed on the image of him atop me yelling, “Scream my name.”

  “I’ll handle this,” he said, and nodded toward the monitor.

  He left the security office and I followed him through the store, from one black-and-white screen to the next, until he reached the juniors department. At the end of the rack where the teenage girl was flipping through jeans, he stopped, folded his hands in front of him, and stared at her. After a few seconds, she looked up. Even in black-and-white, I saw the startled look on her face. She ducked her head and moved away. Ty followed at a distance.

  The girl tried to act cool, pretended to look at a couple of sweaters, but she left the department. I followed her on the monitors, thinking maybe she’d hit the door and make a run for it. I was wrong. In the men’s department, I saw her pull the tops from her tote, drop them on a shelf of golf shirts, then hurry out the front door. On the parking lot camera, I saw her get into a car. It pulled away.

  I looked at the shelves of videotapes. Hundreds of them. Thousands of hours. How many crimes had been recorded? How many people had been caught, how many got away? One for
every tape?

  I scanned the labels and—oh my God—there were the tapes for the night of Richard’s murder. What were they doing here? Didn’t the police take them?

  They were copies—had to be. Instead of the usual neatly typed label, all of them were scrawled with black ink. Maybe Holt’s insurance carrier had required that all tapes be kept. Or maybe their legal team—the good ol’ boys down at Pike Warner—had told Ty to make a copy before releasing the original.

  But here they were. I’d been dying to see them, to find out exactly who had been in the stockroom that night. Even though the loading dock doors had been open during the time of the murder, I might find something here that would help.

  I’d take them.

  The idea hit me like a bolt of lightning. Yeah, okay, I’d just talked trash about that teenager who’d taken those tops, but this was different. Really.

  My heart rate picked up. I might never get this chance again.

  Where was Ty?

  I checked the monitors. Oh God, he was at the customer service booth headed straight for the security office. Steps away.

  I grabbed the two videocassettes marked STOCK ROOM and the one labeled LOADING DOCK, shoved them under my sweater, then yanked the door open. Ty loomed over me.

  “Got to get back to work,” I said, ducking around him.

  He gave me an odd look. He probably expected me to say something about running off that shoplifter—men love it when you watch them do things—but I ignored him, punched in the code on the customer service booth keypad, and hurried inside. My heart hammered and my hands shook a bit. Whew! That was a close one. I was glad to be away from Ty.

  Then I realized—jeez—I wasn’t really away from him. He could see everything I did on the cameras, especially here in the booth. What was I going to do with these videocassettes? I couldn’t work the rest of the night with them tucked under my sweater.

  I really have to get better about thinking things through.

  “I need to take a quick break,” I said to Grace in a low voice. I raised one eyebrow in the universal my-period-started bob, and she nodded, understanding completely. I went to the break room, grabbed my purse from my locker, and dashed into the restroom. No security cameras there.

  I barely got the cassettes into my Chanel satchel—wish I’d brought a tote like that girl in juniors—returned it to my locker, then went back to the customer service booth.

  All this sleuthing had me buzzing pretty good, as I waited on customers. The night of Richard’s murder raged in my mind—and I hadn’t even had any chocolate lately. All I could think was that if that delivery truck hadn’t been at the loading dock at that particular time, on that particular day, Detectives Shuman and Madison would have a complete list of suspects from the surveillance tape. Darn those truck drivers for screwing up everything.

  Unless…

  Maybe one of the truck drivers had murdered Richard. Yeah, that was possible—likely, even. Richard ticked off everyone. Surely that could include the truck driver.

  I finished with the last customer in line and started sorting through the clothing heaped on the counter, shoving pieces into bins. I was on autopilot.

  I wondered if the detectives knew which company’s truck had made the delivery that night. From the weird camera angle at the loading dock I’d just seen on the video monitor, I didn’t know if the field of view was wide enough to see the name on the side of the truck. They would probably have to slog through all sorts of red tape to determine which company it had been.

  But I could find out. Right now.

  Two customers were in line now but I ignored them—Grace would say something if she really needed help—and went to the inventory computer. The home office downloaded the info on all merchandise received into the store. All I had to do was find out what had been delivered that day.

  Oh my God. This is great. I’m going to solve this murder. Me!

  I scrolled through the entries looking for the date of Richard’s death, mentally picturing the stunned expression on Detective Madison’s face when I announce the identity of the murderer. He’ll look like a complete idiot. They might even cancel his retirement ceremony. I can’t wait.

  Only…crap, this can’t be right.

  I scrolled through everything again, but there was no merchandise listed that had been received into the store on that date.

  How can that be?

  I gazed across the customer service booth, thinking, and noticed a woman in line glaring at me. I ignored her—my sales floor training always comes in handy—and thought about what that could mean.

  Then I knew. The truck at the loading dock wasn’t making a delivery. It was the returns truck, the one that picked up our defective and unsaleable merchandise and took it to our central warehouse.

  Learning the identity of the driver would be simple. He was either a contractor or a Holt’s employee. And that further explained why he’d killed Richard. He’d obviously known him at our other stores.

  Maybe Richard was sleeping with the driver’s wife too.

  My heart raced. Yeah, I was on to something here. It all made perfect sense. All I had to do now was call Detective Shuman and tell him—what? That I knew who the murderer was? Hadn’t I just told him that I thought Jeanette Avery was the murderer? And Glenna’s husband? And Sophia Garcia?

  Oh, crap.

  He’d never believe me now—I wouldn’t believe me either—unless I had more evidence. And I knew just how to get it.

  “Grace, I really need a break,” I said.

  “Go for it,” she said.

  Grace is awesome to work with.

  I left the customer service booth and headed toward the accessories department. I needed to talk to Craig. Yeah, I know he made up all those lies about me, trying to get me fired—I still don’t know why he’d do that—but he knew everything there was to know about the returns truck. I’d seen him in the stockroom a million times getting the merchandise ready for pickup. He probably knew the driver. He’d know if there was a problem between him and Richard.

  I picked up my pace through the children’s department, anxious to get the info from Craig. He’d been involved with Richard’s death right from the start. He’d been here that night, even though I didn’t see his name on the work schedule that had disappeared, somehow. He’d taken over when the detectives arrived, showed them the body upstairs as if he already knew where…to find…

  Oh my God.

  My steps slowed and my mind raced back over that night. When I’d come out of the stockroom, seen Evelyn, and told her about Richard’s murder, the first thing she’d asked was where Craig was. At the time I’d thought she was just worried that he would think she wasn’t supervising the department adequately, but maybe there was more to it.

  Evelyn had told me to stay away from Craig. No, she’d actually warned me to stay away, that time in the restroom. I’d thought she was just being weird, but now I was thinking maybe Evelyn knew more than she let on.

  A lot more.

  CHAPTER 24

  I switched off my TV, ending the long, boring surveillance footage of the Holt’s stockroom and loading dock.

  I’d never have patience enough to be a detective. No wonder Madison was such a crank ass.

  When I’d found those tapes in the security office this evening and rushed home to watch them, I was sure I’d discover something the homicide detectives had missed. But there was nothing. Just employees going in and out through the store entrances. A frail, gray-haired woman from Housewares, whose name I didn’t know, who hardly looked strong enough to push a U-boat, let alone yank the bar off of one and hit Richard in the head with it. Craig was there too. Seeing Richard go into the stockroom, knowing he wouldn’t come out, was kind of creepy. And there was me, of course, lounging on the king-size Laura Ashley bed-in-a-bag sets.

  No image of Sophia Garcia, Glenna, Glenna’s husband, or an unknown suspect on the tapes.

  The loading dock surveillance tape s
howed nothing useful. A truck, backed in. A glimpse of the driver wearing Dickie pants and shirt, and a Raiders cap pulled down over his eyes. The camera angle limited the field of view to only one side of the loading dock; anyone could have entered or left from the opposite side and not been seen.

  I hoped that Holt’s would upgrade their security system soon.

  Sitting back on my couch, I stared at the black TV screen, thinking. This afternoon I’d considered Craig a suspect, but nothing on the tape backed up my suspicion. Even something as simple as Craig following Richard into the stockroom might have been a crumb of evidence to go on, but it didn’t happen that way.

  Craig had entered the stockroom through the door near the intimates department. A few minutes later, according to the date and time stamp on the video, Richard had entered through the door beside the customer service booth. The two of them had entered from opposite sides of the huge stockroom. They probably hadn’t even known that the other was in there. Just coincidence. Which was probably why Detective Shuman figured the murderer had slipped in through the open loading dock door.

  But, still, I couldn’t let it go. Something about Craig’s behavior didn’t seem quite right.

  The stockroom was usually empty at night. No one went in there, unless they needed something specific. Like me, when I’d gone to look—sort of—for that customer’s Wonderbra, or the woman from Housewares who’d come out carrying a stack of towels that she’d undoubtedly fetched at the request of a customer. Craig had probably gone in to handle the returns. But why was Richard in there? I wondered if it had something to do with whomever Evelyn had overheard him arguing with in the office earlier that evening.

  Needing an energy boost, I got a Snickers bar from the kitchen and paced around until the sugar kicked in. Maybe if I thought like a detective I could come up with something. A clue. Some evidence. A connection.

  I got another Snickers bar—just to heighten my awareness—and ran everything through my mind again. Nothing on the security tape connected. Just store employees going about their business. A routine night at a retail store—until Richard was murdered, of course.