Purses and Poison

by Dorothy Howell

  Mom got distracted pretty easily—especially if the new issue of Vogue just arrived—but she’d have remembered that I was dating the hottest bachelor known to all her friends.

  My cell phone rang. I fished it out of my purse and looked at the caller ID. Mom. I tossed the phone onto the seat. I didn’t need to talk to her to know what she wanted. I could read her mind as clearly as a clearance sale tag at Nordstrom.

  The charity gala at the Biltmore was drawing closer and Mom wanted to know who I was going with. She wanted us to go dress shopping together, too. I wasn’t ready to commit to either.

  Floating around in the depths of my memory was the recollection that Mom and Claudia’s mother had been pageant rivals, back in the day. Had that morphed into some sort of my-daughter-is-better-than-your-daughter competition that I didn’t know about? A Texas-cheerleader-mom kind of thing?

  Starting at age three, I’d been put through the rigors of dance, singing, and music lessons by Mom in her search to discover in me some—any, really—natural talent. By the time I was nine we were down to baton lessons, and after I set the curtains on fire in the den, she’d given up on me.

  I’d never made the pageant rounds, so there’d been nothing for my mom and Claudia’s mom to compete over. But had their old rivalry resurfaced when it came to which daughter Ty—hot bachelor that he was—would choose?

  Then another really awful thought hit me: if I could think these things about Mom, what must Detective Madison be thinking?

  The Edible Elegance base of operations stood out like a red Gucci bag at a funeral sandwiched between a car stereo installation place and a painting contractor in an industrial park in Altadena.

  Today, just like every other day I’d been here, a group of men stood around in paint-splattered clothes. I’d never heard any of them speak English, so I figured it was just a matter of time before the INS raided the complex, shutting down Mom’s business along with the others, and miring our family in a lengthy and expensive lawsuit.

  Mom would have known that if she’d visited the site before signing the lease.

  Debbie, the manager whom Mom had hired for no particular reason that I was aware of, waved through the window of the Edible Elegance office attached to the workroom. She recognized me immediately; I doubt she’d know Mom if she were standing next to me.

  My Armani suit attracted a lot of attention from the men clustered outside the painting contractor business when I got out of the car. Wow, just like at the restaurant. One of the guys did a double take, punched another in the arm, pointed, and said something in Spanish. Within two seconds all of them were staring.

  Then it hit me. Maybe I’d spilled something on the front of my jacket and hadn’t realized it. Was that why everyone was staring? Jeez, how embarrassing.

  I put my nose in the air pretending absolutely nothing could possibly be wrong, just as I’d seen Mom do a zillion times, and walked into the office of Edible Elegance. I stole a quick glance at myself as I crossed the threshold. No trail of salad dressing dribbled down my jacket. Whew. I guess it was just like Mom said: when you wear great clothes, people notice. Even painting day-laborers, it seemed.

  “Haley, what a nice surprise,” Debbie said, coming to her feet and rounding the desk to greet me.

  Debbie had probably passed fifty several years ago but was fighting it. I had to hand it to her for that. Slim, trim, and just a little bottom heavy, she no doubt spent hours in the gym every day. The ’80s were her favorite decade, apparently, because she still dressed in velveteen warm-up suits and styled her coal-black hair around a visor.

  And no, I have no idea why Mom hired her.

  “Has my mom been by lately?” I asked.

  “No, no, I haven’t seen her in a while.” Debbie gave me a big smile and declared, “Orders are pouring in! L.A. loves us!”

  She waved her hand toward the fax machine and telephone, both of which were silent, but still, I admired her enthusiasm. I decided to let her enjoy it while she could. Any moment now, Detective Madison would gleefully announce that Edible Elegance had poisoned Claudia, Mom’s attorney would shut down the business, and Debbie would be out of a job.

  Still, I needed info, and I had to get it without alarming her.

  “Have the police been here?” I asked.

  Debbie’s eyes widened. Okay, maybe I needed to work on my interview skills.

  “The police?” Debbie’s gaze darted to the door, like she expected a SWAT team to repel from a hovering helicopter at any second. Then she gave me a nervous laugh. “Well, whatever for?”

  “Someone died at the Holt’s luncheon,” I said.

  “Oh, that.” Debbie laughed again, but sobered quickly. “That pageant coach. I heard about her on the news. So sad. But no, the police haven’t been here. Why would they?”

  “Routine stuff, since Edible Elegance was part of the event,” I explained.

  “I don’t know what I could tell them,” Debbie said, shaking her head. “I mean, I drove the van to the store, unloaded the bouquets, and had Marilyn sign for them. That’s it.”

  “Did you see anything…unusual?” I asked.

  Debbie’s lips turned down. “I was only there for a few minutes, and I wasn’t really looking around.”

  “So the fruit bouquets are selling well?” I asked, changing the subject like I’d seen the detectives on Law & Order do.

  Debbie perked up. “Terrific!”

  “What’s with the chocolate name tags?” I asked.

  Adding the name tags had made it possible for the killer to target Claudia. Whoever ordered the fruit bouquets for the event would know that, and according to Marilyn at Pacific Coast Catering, that person was Sarah Covington. So if Sarah had requested the name tags along with the bouquets, I’d be one step closer to pinning this whole murder on her.

  I couldn’t wait to see Ty’s face when they carted her off to jail.

  The scene played out in my mind like a movie trailer.

  I’ll be with him, of course. He’ll be stunned that his judgment had been so bad. I’ll take his hand, look into his eyes, and assure him that he’s not to blame, it was all Sarah. Then he’ll tighten his grip on my hand, touch my cheek, realize that I’m the only woman in the world for him.

  Sarah’s trial could take years. I was going to have to find a way to speed this up.

  Debbie laughed, bringing me back into the moment.

  “Weren’t those name tags just the most darling things?” she said. “A nice touch, I thought. They were your mom’s idea.”

  My heart started to beat a little faster. Mom had done that? Mom? She’d thought up the name tags?

  My whole line of thinking reversed, and I was desperate to hear that Edible Elegance had been using the name tags for weeks and I’d not known it.

  “When did you begin using them?” I asked.

  “Just started,” Debbie said, nodding so hard the visor bounced up and down. “We used them for the first time at the Holt’s event. Everybody loved them—absolutely everybody!”

  Except Claudia.

  My stomach looped into a knot the size of a Prada satchel. I had to go. I mumbled something about keeping up the good work, and raced to my car. Outside, guys from the car stereo installation place had joined the painters and all of them stared.

  What was wrong with everybody today? This was the last time I’d wear this suit.

  I jumped into my car and was ready to pull away when Debbie dashed out of the office, waving frantically. I buzzed down my window.

  “I just thought of something,” she told me, leaning down. “I did see something kind of unusual at Holt’s that day. Well, no, actually, I heard something. Two women arguing.”

  My spirits lifted a little. “Who were they?”

  Debbie shook her head. “They were on the other side of the delivery van. I couldn’t see who it was. Sorry.”

  “What were they fighting about?” I asked.

  “I couldn’t make it out.” Deb
bie’s lips turned down again. “Sorry.”

  This whole thing was weird, I thought as I pulled out of the complex. I couldn’t figure why my mom would get so involved with an event—especially one at Holt’s, of all places—that she’d come up with the idea for chocolate name tags.

  Except that, of course, she’d added the name tags so Claudia could more easily be murdered.

  But if Mom had done that, she’d first have to have a reason to kill Claudia, decide to do it, come up with the means and method, get the poison, go to Edible Elegance’s location, actually go into the workroom, and put the poison on the fruit bouquet. I couldn’t see Mom doing any of those things.

  But Detective Madison would.

  This meant only one thing: I was going to have to go see Mom.

  Crap.

  Chapter 11

  “I’m overwhelmed. Completely overwhelmed,” Mom declared as I walked through the front door of the house.

  My mom was tall, like me, with dark brown hair. She always looked like she expected to answer the door and a photographer from Vogue would snap her picture. Today she had on Kenneth Cole pumps, pants, a cowl-neck sweater by Michael Kors, three tennis bracelets, a necklace, and diamond stud earrings. My mom’s idea of lounge wear.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  Note: she didn’t say hello or ask how I was doing.

  “How could I not be overwhelmed?” Mom demanded, gesturing to the ceiling with the wineglass she carried. “Things are frantic around here.”

  I followed her to the family room off the kitchen. The house was perfectly still. No one else was in sight except Juanita, the housekeeper, who stood in the kitchen wiping down the countertops.

  Mom’s idea of frantic.

  She sighed heavily. “So much is happening.”

  It didn’t matter how many times I asked—or whether I asked at all—Mom would get to the point sooner or later. But I didn’t have that kind of time. I had to get to Holt’s for my shift.

  “Listen, Mom, I need to ask you about Edible Elegance,” I said. “At the—”

  “What?”

  “Edible Elegance,” I said again. “The chocolate-covered fruit bouquets? The business you started?”

  Mom waved away my words with a flick of her hand. “I can’t concern myself with that at a time like this.”

  Then I felt bad. After all, one of her oldest—though certainly not dearest—friends had just lost her daughter. Mom shared the pain Claudia’s family suffered, the horror of her murder, their future without Claudia in it.

  “I know,” I said softly. “It’s really bad about Claudia.”

  “Who?”

  What had I been thinking?

  “Claudia Gray,” I said. “She died the other day.”

  “Oh yes. Of course.” Mom sipped her wine. “I’ve spoken with Cynthia. She’s devastated. The entire family is devastated. Such a tragedy. I have no idea what I’ll wear to the funeral.”

  “So look, Mom, about Edible Elegance,” I said.

  “There’s an investigator involved, you know,” Mom said.

  Patience…patience…patience. Wait for it…wait for it…

  “He specializes in—” Mom glimpsed herself in the mirror above the fireplace.

  At this rate, I’d be lucky to make tomorrow’s shift at Holt’s.

  “Who hired an investigator?” I asked.

  Mom turned her head left, then right, studying her reflection. “The family.”

  “Claudia’s family?” I asked.

  She touched the back of her hair. “He specializes in this sort of thing. Much more efficient than the police.”

  Not efficient enough to find out that Edible Elegance had poisoned Claudia, I hoped.

  “The fruit bouquets have chocolate name tags on them now,” I said. “Where did the idea come from?”

  Mom turned to me. “How would I possible know?”

  “Well, Mom, it’s your company,” I said.

  “That’s what staff is for.”

  Mom walked to the edge of the kitchen and placed her wineglass on the counter. Juanita stopped working and poured her another glass.

  “Your father is involved in some big project,” Mom said. “He’s never home on time anymore.”

  My dad was an aerospace engineer. He was always involved in a big project.

  “I told him to bring those young men on his team home with him,” Mom said. “I’m sure they could use a home-cooked meal.”

  Not that my mom would do the cooking, of course.

  “Who’s your date for the charity gala?” Mom asked.

  Damn. She’d hit me with it out of the blue. Caught me totally off guard. At times, Mom could be very crafty.

  But I wasn’t about to give her any info. And I knew how to throw her off the scent.

  “Whose dresses look good to you?” I asked.

  Mom launched into an explanation of the subtle and almost undetectable differences in the designer lines, and I drifted off.

  I still didn’t see my mom murdering Claudia, but if she was determined to accomplish something, she could do it. She’d been hardened by her beauty pageant experiences—you didn’t get to be third runner-up in the Miss America contest without trashing a tiara or two, or breaking an occasional nail.

  If Mom had, in fact, ordered the chocolate name tags on the fruit bouquets, she would have needed a list of people seated at the head table, and she’d have gotten it from Holt’s. That thought cheered me up a bit because the list would have come from Sarah Covington, which meant I could pin her with, at least, accessory to murder.

  So how did Mom get the list? How did she send it to Debbie at Edible Elegance? Even though Mom wasn’t exactly a computer whiz, she could handle e-mail.

  “Mom?” I butted into her rambling explanation of the YSL strapless gowns. “Is that a spot on your sweater?”

  She looked down, horrified, even though there was no spot, and hurried away.

  I dashed into the den and pulled up Mom’s e-mail on the family computer. I’d figured out her password a long time ago—her own name—and checked her mailbox. Nothing received from Holt’s. Nothing sent to Edible Elegance or Debbie personally, which was good, since I’d really like to clear my mom of murder.

  By the time I got back into the family room, Mom was there. She’d changed her sweater. Afraid she’d ask about my date again, or try to get me to meet her for a shopping trip to pick out gowns for the charity gala, I headed her off with another subject.

  “I’m really worried about the way Debbie is running the business,” I said.

  Mom gazed at me. “Who’s Debbie?”

  Okay, I’m out of here.

  “Got to go to class,” I said, and headed for the door.

  Mom called after me, but I pretended not to hear as I dashed out of the house.

  Just as I got to my car, a white four-door Volvo pulled up and four guys got out. They were engineers, the guys on my dad’s team whom Mom had invited for dinner. I figured them for early thirties; it takes a long time to endure all that schooling and get what they considered a good job somewhere.

  Engineers, as a group, are brilliant. They’ve sent men to the moon, put computers in our pockets, and made the most remote spot on the planet a mere cell phone call away. But aside from that, they’re kind of weird.

  I knew these guys were engineers because, thanks to my dad’s job, I’d been looking at them all of my life. You can always tell an engineer, and these were no exception.

  All four of them crowded at the hood of the car. Judging by the pants the driver wore, he believed it was still Hammer time. Another guy had on plaid shorts and mandals—man sandals. The third one wore powder-blue sweatpants and black dress shoes. The other guy had on a jacket he must have been wearing since junior high.

  Clothing manufacturers really need to put expiration labels in their clothes so men will know when to stop wearing them.

  They all stopped when they saw me and clustered together,
rising on their toes and craning their necks to see me. And it wasn’t my Armani suit this time. Among them, these guys probably had more degrees than dates.

  “Hey, guys,” I called, and gave them a finger wave.

  They all mumbled something and the guy in the mandals sort of waved. I think he was going for the Vulcan live-long-and-prosper hand gesture—which really translates to I’m-a-dork-and-a-loser—then caught himself.

  The guy in the eighth grade jacket stepped away from the pack and approached me with his hand out.

  “Doug Eisner,” he said.

  I took his hand and warmth zinged up my arm, which kind of surprised me.

  I’d figured him for the president of the Klingon Dictionary Club, but now that he was closer I could see that he was kind of handsome, in a dorky engineer sort of way. Tall, brown hair that was about seven years out of style, and not a bad build considering all the time he spent hunched over a computer.

  “I’m Haley,” I said.

  The guys behind him stared openmouthed, as if I were a trophy Doug had just brought down at a big game hunt.

  Doug nodded toward the street. “Your dad is right behind us. We’re having dinner here tonight.”

  Engineers, as a group, are social misfits. But that’s okay because they knew it. It had taken a lot for Doug to step forward and actually speak aloud, and the fact that he’d put together two complete sentences was impressive. So I didn’t want to just blow him off and leave even though, with each second I stood here, the chances of him launching into a mind-numbing explanation of their current project grew. No way could I listen to that.

  “Enjoy,” I said, and gave them all another wave.

  “You’re not staying?” Doug asked.

  “No, I’ve got to—”

  I wasn’t about to tell him I was leaving for my shift at Holt’s tonight. He might mention it to Mom in a desperate attempt to make dinner conversation. And I didn’t want to use my I’ve-got-class excuse, either. Not that I was embarrassed about the two classes I was taking—Doug had probably forgotten more than I was ever going to learn in school—but it just wasn’t something I wanted to get into with him.