Purses and Poison

by Dorothy Howell

  “Holly,” she told me. “Holly is hosting the party.”

  “Holly?”

  I didn’t like Holly, which was all her fault.

  Holly had hung out with Marcie, me, and a bunch of our friends—I’m not sure who let her into our group—but she was totally not cut out for the party scene. She was no good at bars or clubs, yet she insisted on coming.

  All sorts of things can happen there, and you just have to roll with them. Such as, a girl I know drank too much and passed out cold on the dance floor, so an ambulance hauled her to the emergency room. The guy she was with went with her, after he got another beer—the bartender had announced last call so, really, you couldn’t blame him—took pictures of her with his cell phone while she was passed out on the gurney with tubes stuck in her, and sent them to all his friends. She went home in hospital booties because she lost a shoe, but the ER doctor wrote it up as a “fainting spell” so her insurance covered it.

  See? Cool stuff.

  Holly wouldn’t roll with anything. And as if that weren’t bad enough, one time she asked the waitress for light alcohol in her drink. Light alcohol. And I was sitting right next to her. How embarrassing.

  Holly ignores all the established rules of partying. She wouldn’t eat before hitting a club, which is a must—if you don’t want to end up on a gurney in the ER wearing one shoe while your date e-mails your picture to everyone. The drive-through at Taco Bell is perfect. Just grab a bag of tacos and eat them in the car on the way over. They coat the stomach perfectly and you don’t lose any partying time.

  I tried to give Holly some of the other tips I’ve picked up over the years, such as, always step onto a chair before trying to dance on a tabletop. Don’t just throw your leg up there and think you can do it, because you can’t. Always check for stability first. Holly looked at me like I was crazy.

  That wasn’t why I didn’t like her, though. It’s because she was a crier.

  At a club, all Holly wanted to do is scam for men. She never wanted to hang out with the girls and just have fun. Guys sense desperation, of course, so none of them ever approached her. This caused her to drink too much—and it is, after all, full-strength alcohol—so she always ended up drunk and crying.

  It really spoiled the party mood.

  “I know you don’t like Holly,” Marcie said, “but this is business. Rita and Tiffany wouldn’t turn down a party just because they didn’t like the person hosting.”

  “That’s because they have no standards,” I told her.

  Which was true. I’d only met Tiffany once, and just for a couple of minutes, but I saw immediately why she and Rita were such good friends. Tiffany had on jeweled Wal-Mart sandals and a T-shirt with “workin’ it” across the front that, I’m sure, made her the envy of her trailer park. She’d just moved here from Alabama or Arkansas—I don’t know, one of the A states—because her boyfriend had lost his job at the Piggly Wiggly. But that was okay with Tiffany because he had a good personal injury case going.

  “So we’re doing the party. Right?” Marcie said.

  I huffed, annoyed that there was no good reason not to.

  “Yeah, we’ll do the party,” I said. “But if we go out afterward, Holly is not coming with us.”

  “Deal,” Marcie said, and hung up.

  I turned around and headed back toward Nordstrom, and my phone rang again. I figured it was Marcie calling back, but the name of Bradley Olsen from the Golden State Bank & Trust appeared on the caller ID screen.

  A little wave of guilt hit me because I’d promised Evelyn and Christine that I’d check further into Cecil’s disappearance, and I hadn’t done it yet. Maybe Mr. Olsen was calling to say he’d turned up something that would put an end to this thing once and for all. I could really use a break.

  “Miss Randolph, something’s come up,” Mr. Olsen said in his concerned-banker voice. “I’m afraid I might have been hasty in my earlier assessment of this Cecil Hartley’s intentions toward Ms. Croft.”

  So much for the break I needed.

  “I took another look at Hartley’s credit bureau report and noted a recent inquiry from a mortgage company,” Mr. Olsen said. “I happen to know one of the loan officers there, so I phoned and asked a few questions, discreetly, of course. Seems Hartley is in the process of refinancing his house, cashing out some of the equity.”

  I didn’t know much about mortgages or equity, or the banker lingo that went with it, but I did know what “cashing out” meant.

  “How much?” I asked.

  “One hundred fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Wow, that’s a lot of cash,” I said.

  “It is,” Mr. Olsen said, though he didn’t sound particularly impressed. He was, after all, VP of the GSB & T, where some of his customers spend that much on lunch.

  “But that’s not what concerns me,” Mr. Olsen went on. “It seems that, with this refinance, a woman will be added to the deed.”

  I already knew who it was, but I asked anyway.

  Mr. Olsen paused for a moment, and I pictured him flipping through the file. “A Ms. Barbara Ingalls. But simply adding another person on the title of the property isn’t what concerns me. This woman intends to execute the loan documents using Cecil Hartley’s power of attorney.”

  “She can do that?” I asked.

  “Oh yes, it’s perfectly legal,” Mr. Olsen said. “But after what you told me about Hartley’s investment advice to Ms. Croft and him being, perhaps, a gigolo of sorts, I’m concerned that he may be running some type of scam on this Ingalls woman. Frankly, this new turn of events seems suspect to me.”

  It seemed suspect to me, too. But I wasn’t sure what it really meant. Cecil, according to his daughter, was crazy about Barb and willing to do anything to keep her in his life, so putting her on the deed to his house wouldn’t be out of line. Unless, of course, Barb had gotten Cecil’s power of attorney, then murdered him, as Evelyn suspected, so she could cash out his equity and pocket it herself.

  “I’ll stay on this,” Mr. Olsen promised, and hung up.

  I knew what I had to do. I scrolled through my address book and made a call to Detective Shuman, figuring I’d get a pretty cold reception. I did, especially after I said, “I need to talk to you about a murder. No, not Claudia’s. Another murder.”

  For once, I was glad to start my shift at Holt’s. That whole thing with Cecil and Barb had irked me, and even after I’d called Detective Shuman, I hadn’t felt any better. Probably because Shuman wasn’t the least bit interested in checking into a murder that may not really have happened, when he already had a real murder to solve and suspected I was withholding information.

  When I arrived at the employee break room, the usual line had formed at the time clock. Rita glowered at me, which wasn’t unusual, but so did everyone else, which was.

  “Thanks a lot, Haley,” someone groused.

  “Way to go,” another person complained.

  Did I miss a memo? A meeting?

  Everyone glared at me as the line moved forward.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “One of those damn cats of yours attacked Shannon in the stockroom,” the heavyset guy from menswear said. “So now all of us employees might have to get rabies shots.”

  “What?”

  Colleen, that sort-of retarded girl, glanced back at me. “The cat is possessed with the evil spirit of the person who murdered that girl. I heard that Jeanette’s going to have a priest come in and bless the stockroom.”

  Okay, well, I guess that couldn’t hurt anything.

  Rita glared at me as I punched in, and I was tempted to fling it in her face that Marcie had landed us a huge purse party. But I decided to spring it on her afterward, when I could pummel her with the astronomical number of bags we’d sold. I checked the work schedule, and left the break room.

  For some reason, I was assigned to the sewing department again tonight. That squirrelly old lady Marlene must have requested me, because I usual
ly worked in a different department every night; I got passed around like a Saturday night sweetheart, which was okay with me. The good news was that I’d noted on the schedule that Bella was working in housewares tonight, next to sewing.

  When I got to the department, there was no sign of Marlene, but Bella was there. She’d really hit her stride with her famous landmarks hairstyle. Tonight the St. Louis Arch spanned her head.

  “Look at this,” she said, flipping through a pattern book. “Right here. Patterns for headbands, scarves, all kinds of head gear.”

  I joined her at the table and opened one of the books. Wow, there were all kinds of patterns for making just about anything. Place mats, curtains, teddy bears, handbags—handbags?

  “I’m thinking I ought to start my new business now,” Bella said, “so I’ll be ready when I graduate from beauty school.”

  There were patterns for handbags? You could make a handbag?

  This revelation startled me. I felt a tingle race up my spine—then realized it was my cell phone in my back pocket that I’d put on vibrate.

  We were not supposed to have cell phones on the sales floor, so I slipped over to the housewares department, crouched down behind a display of vacuum cleaners, and saw that I’d received a voice mail. It was from Doug.

  Doug? That was a surprise. I figured I’d never hear from him again after last night in the Holt’s parking lot.

  I listened to his message.

  “Hello, Haley. This is Doug. I’ll meet you tonight for coffee, as planned. I’m counting the hours until I see you again.”

  Counting the hours? Okay, that was weird. Anyway, I had to hand it to him for sticking with our date after being accosted by Detective Madison.

  As I tucked my phone away, I noticed a man hanging around the cookware. Not your typical pots and pans customer. Thirty, or maybe a year or two younger, kind of tall, with brown hair that needed a trim, wearing slightly rumpled khakis and a polo shirt. Handsome, in an off-the-rack sort of way.

  Working in a department store, you see all sorts of people. Young, old, smart, stupid, rich, poor. Most are pleasant enough. They say thank you when you help them find something, or make small talk at checkout.

  I practiced being just pleasant enough that customers didn’t complain about me; even that was a stretch—especially with the difficult customers, the ones you couldn’t make happy, no matter what.

  Since starting work at Holt’s, I’d gotten pretty good at spotting a potential shoplifter. I recognized a customer in a foul mood so, when I saw them, I could just happen to need something from the stockroom and take off. Employees from other stores “shopped” us, and I’d gotten good at their tactics.

  But this guy standing by the cookware wasn’t like anyone else I’d ever seen before. He didn’t belong here.

  He looked at me across the vacuum cleaners, and we made eye contact. A little jolt went through me. Wow, blue eyes—great blue eyes. Then he grinned, one of those half-boyish, half-come-hither grins.

  “What can you tell me about this cookware?” he asked.

  I rounded the vacuums. Too bad we weren’t in lingerie. That I could explain.

  “It can be used for cooking, I understand,” I told him.

  He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t cook?”

  “I dial.”

  “Come on, you must cook something,” he said.

  “My favorite recipe is ‘open bag, serve at room temperature,’” I told him.

  He nodded, and we both studied the cookware display for a moment. Then he turned to me again.

  “You’re Haley Randolph. Right?” he said. “I’m Ben Oliver.”

  My mind raced as I tried to place the name. Nothing came to me.

  “I’m a reporter with the L.A. Daily Courier,” he said. “I’d like to talk to you.”

  Oh, crap.

  Chapter 18

  “No comment,” I said, and walked away.

  “Give me a break, will you?” Ben said, catching up with me. “I’m on deadline.”

  “I don’t know anything about the murder,” I told him.

  “Who said anything about murder?” Ben asked.

  I stopped. “Aren’t you here about Claudia’s death?”

  He eyed me sharply. “So you do know something about her murder.”

  “No, I don’t,” I insisted, but it came out sounding a little weak.

  No way was I going to talk to a newspaper reporter about Claudia’s death. I’d seen what the media had done to the Missing Server. I sure as heck didn’t want to become known as the Surprise Witness and end up with my face plastered all over the front page, the Internet, and the network news broadcasts.

  Ben gave me a disarming grin and shrugged. “I’m just here for the cat story.”

  Okay, this was worse. Way worse. I didn’t want to be the Surprise Witness, but I definitely did not want to be the Cat Lady of Holt’s.

  Ben pulled a little notebook out of his pants pocket and flipped a page.

  “According to a source,” he said, “you’ve just been elected president of a pet rescue.”

  “What?” I all but screamed. “Who told you that?”

  He glanced at the notebook again. “A coworker of yours named Sandy.”

  Oh my God. Oh my God. Sandy had told me her mom was involved with some sort of pet rescue. They’d elected me president? Was this nightmare never going to end?

  “This is a lame-ass story,” I said. “Why are you wasting your time on it?”

  “My editor’s idea,” Ben said. He shook his head. “His idea of punishment, that is.”

  “You must have screwed up big time,” I said.

  “So give me something on Claudia Gray’s murder,” he told me, “so I can redeem myself.”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “I think you do.”

  I’m really going to have to brush up on my lying skills.

  “Look, I don’t want to be in the newspaper. Okay?” I said. “My life is kind of complicated right now, so just leave me out of the story.”

  “All I need is a quote. One sentence,” Ben said, pulling an ink pen from his pocket.

  I huffed, making sure he knew this didn’t suit me, then somehow channeled my mom and said, “I’m thankful to everyone who has lent their support to caring for these cats, and grateful for the opportunity to make life better for them.”

  I almost added that I wished for world peace, but stopped myself.

  Ben jotted it down.

  “There. You have your quote,” I said. “Now will you leave me alone?”

  He studied me for a moment, then shook his head. “No. I think I’ll keep my eye on you.”

  Oh, crap.

  The possibility of mass rabies shots had dampened everyone’s altruistic spirit, luckily, so I had no bags or cases of cat food to haul out to my car after my shift ended. Which was good, because I had something important to take care of tonight.

  I pulled out my cell phone and called Jack Bishop, the Adonis of private investigators, as I fed my time card into the clock and left the break room. Employees glared at me again, but I ignored them. I was getting good at that.

  Jack picked up on the first ring.

  “Hey, Jack,” I said, “I’m in need of your services.”

  It was a leading statement, but Jack brings that out in me, somehow.

  “Are we talking about what I think we’re talking about?” he asked, in his best Barry White voice.

  A warm chill swept over me, and I was on the edge of agreeing to most anything he suggested. But things weren’t that simple with Jack.

  “I believe we are,” I told him. “Surveillance.”

  “Not exactly what I had in mind,” he said.

  “I’m serious,” I said. “I want to hire you. I’ll pay.”

  “You bet your sweet little ass you will,” Jack said.

  I got an even warmer chill this time, but fought it off and gave him the time and place to meet tonight. I hung up
and crossed the parking lot, only to stop still in my tracks.

  Doug stood beside my car.

  Oh my God. Doug. We were supposed to go out for coffee tonight. I’d forgotten all about it. But I’d just told Jack I’d meet him.

  Jeez, I couldn’t cancel Doug—not with him standing right in front of me. He’d remembered our date and he’d showed up on time—even after the incident with Detective Madison.

  “Good evening, Haley,” he said. “You look nice tonight.”

  I looked like crap, but it was sweet that he’d made the comment.

  We decided to have coffee at the Starbucks down the street. I told him I didn’t want to leave my car in the Holt’s parking lot after closing, but really, he drove a white Kia, which was beyond embarrassing, and besides, I wanted to be able to make a quick getaway and meet Jack. We drove our own cars.

  Doug ordered the same drink as me, a mocha Frappuccino, and we sat at one of the little tables near the window. He paid, which was nice.

  “So, Haley, how was your day?” he asked.

  Okay, that was weird. A date who asked how your day was? I’d have to tell Marcie about this.

  Since I didn’t want to mention the two murder and one missing persons investigations I’d been involved with today, or the rabies shots everyone at Holt’s was destined for, or the newspaper reporter who’d threatened to splash my name all over the front page, I didn’t have much to talk about. So I told Doug about Bella’s headgear business idea and how I’d learned that all sorts of things—even handbags—could actually be made with a pattern and a sewing machine.

  “Are you two going into business together?” Doug asked.

  The idea took me by surprise. The notion of designing my own handbags had occurred to me, but I’d never considered the possibility of going into business with anyone, especially Bella.

  “Maybe I’ll talk to her about it,” I said.

  Doug glanced down at my sweater—I’m sure it was my sweater he was looking at—and said, “You have very nice clothing. I think you’d be good at it.”

  I asked Doug about his day, which I wasn’t the least bit interested in, but thought I should ask. He started telling me about his job and my eyes glazed over, but he didn’t seem to notice.