“Are you saying Claudia was killed over an incorrect invoice?” Rebecca asked.
She sounded relieved, but I didn’t want to give her false hope.
“It’s just something I’m checking into,” I said.
“Who told you this?” she demanded. “Was it that Jamie Kirkwood girl? That Missing Server? Did she see something?”
“This isn’t about the Holt’s luncheon,” I explained. “It was a luncheon at your house for the models that Claudia coached. Jamie was there, but she didn’t have anything to do with the pricing.”
“She was there? At my house?” Rebecca asked, sounding panicked.
I guess it freaked her out that Jamie, who’d been at the scene of Claudia’s murder, had also been at her house, in her home, the place where we all think we’re safe. I didn’t blame her. I knew how weirded-out I felt receiving that note on my door with the creepy smiley face/skull on it, and it was supposed to be something nice from Ty.
Then I regretted that I’d called Rebecca at all. I shouldn’t have involved her. Obviously, she was still too upset to deal rationally with the investigation.
“Never mind, okay?” I said, trying to sound casual. “It wasn’t a big deal, anyway. I’ll talk to you later.”
We hung up and I continued down the street toward Wallace Inc. I still didn’t see Ty’s car parked outside, but I didn’t want to wait around forever. I slipped inside.
Chaos reigned, but I could see the store’s potential. Hardwood floors, bright colors, tons of racks and display tables. Workmen moved around and from farther back into the shop, I heard saws and drills running. Several girls—new hires, I guessed—moved merchandise around.
“Are you here to fill out an application?” someone asked.
A woman stepped in front of me. She looked to be in her mid-thirties, casually dressed in jeans and a sweater. I figured her for the store manager Ty had told me he’d hired, and apparently she thought I was there to apply for a job.
“No,” I said. “I wanted to see if—”
“Haley!” she exclaimed. “I’m Tina Mitchell, the store manager. You are Haley, right?”
“Well, yeah,” I said. My mind raced, but I couldn’t place her name or her face.
She must have realized my dilemma because she smiled and said, “I recognized you from your pictures. In Ty’s office.”
I froze. Ty had my photo up in his office?
I’d already have known this, if I’d ever been to his office. And it was totally his fault that I hadn’t.
But I’d never given him a picture of me.
“What a fabulous idea for photos. So much better than those stuffy studio portraits,” Tina declared. “The one of you behind the counter at the Holt’s Customer Service Booth is terrific. So is the one where you’re working at the register. But my favorite is the one where you’re in the stockroom, sitting on a bed-in-a-bag set.”
Those pictures were taken from the Holt’s security surveillance.
Tina threw her head back and laughed. “That one is Ty’s favorite, too, because it’s sitting right on the corner of his desk.”
Ty lifted pics of me from the surveillance tapes, had them framed, and put them in his office?
“I’ve got to go,” I said, and headed toward the door.
“Did you need something?” Tina asked.
“No, nothing,” I said, and hurried outside and down the block.
Okay, that was totally weird. Did it mean that Ty was so crazy about me that he’d gone to all that trouble just to have pictures of me in his office? Or did it mean that Ty was…well, just crazy?
I got to my car and saw a paper stuck under the windshield wiper. Great, just what I needed, a flyer about a discount nail shop.
But it wasn’t a flyer. It was an envelope.
I whirled left, then right, looking up and down the block, trying to spot Ty. I didn’t see him.
I opened the envelope and inside was the same style of card with the puppies on the front. Inside was written “You can’t hide from me.” Underneath, was the same skull/happy face.
Oh, crap.
Chapter 20
Okay, so maybe the cards weren’t from Ty.
The idea popped into my mind as I left Wallace Inc. and headed for the freeway.
Maybe they were from—well, I had no idea who they might be from. They’d started out sweet, but that drawing—the one I hoped was a poor rendition of a smiley face—was starting to look more like a skull, and the message had seemed sort of threatening.
Ty didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d leave creepy notes, but what about those pictures of me from the Holt’s video surveillance tapes that he had in his office? That was kind of weird. And I had wondered if he’d been Claudia’s stalker.
Maybe the skull/happy face thing was Ty’s idea of a joke.
I’d know that if he’d ever left me a card before—one he’d signed his name to. So here I was wondering what was up with Ty, not knowing what my sort-of boyfriend was really like—which was totally his fault.
Then another thought bloomed in my head. If the cards were meant to be threatening, and they weren’t from Ty, that would mean—
I didn’t want to think about what that would mean. Not right now, anyway. Because right now, I had to go see my mom. I wasn’t really up for seeing Mom, but I didn’t have a choice. I had to get things handled with Edible Elegance.
When I got to the house Juanita pointed me toward the patio. Mom sat under an umbrella table beside the pool wearing a Liz Claiborne shirt, four-inch heels, and Gucci sunglasses, and working the phone. Her day planner was open in front of her.
She gave me a little wave, talked for another minute, then hung up and sighed heavily.
“Everything is arranged,” Mom declared, as if she’d just organized the Normandy invasion.
I didn’t ask what she was talking about. I didn’t have that kind of time—or patience, at the moment. That didn’t stop her, though.
“Hair and makeup are handled,” she said, consulting the list in her planner. “Gowns, shoes, and jewelry, of course.”
“Mom, I need to talk to you about Debbie,” I said.
She stared at her list, then picked up an ink pen. “I’m missing something.”
“Have you heard from her?” I asked.
Mom tapped the pen against the list. “It’s something…I just can’t quite recall.”
“Mom, this is really important,” I said. “Has Debbie contacted you?”
She looked up at me then. “Who?”
“Debbie. The woman who runs Edible Elegance for you.”
Mom sat back in her chair and frowned. “Why on earth would she call me?”
I took that to mean that Mom hadn’t heard from Debbie, which didn’t surprise me. Mom wasn’t the kind of person you’d rush to for anything but a fashion emergency.
“You need to call your accountant,” I said. “I think something fishy is going on with the billing for Edible Elegance bouquets. He needs to check into it.”
Mom gazed skyward for a moment, then suddenly brightened. “Oh yes, of course. The limo,” she said, and added something to her list.
“Never mind, Mom. I’ll call the accountant myself,” I said.
I should have just done that in the first place. I don’t know why I always thought Mom was going to be different, why I kept hoping that someday things would change.
“I saw the gown you selected at Chez March,” Mom said. “Lilliana showed me. Excellent choice.”
Warmth glowed in my belly, the same feeling I always got whenever she paid me a compliment, just like when I was four years old.
“I saw Rebecca Gray at Chez March,” I said. “I was surprised her family was still going to the charity gala.”
“Well, of course Rebecca is going,” Mom said. “She’s receiving one of the awards.”
The annual gala at the Biltmore was mostly an occasion to get together and show off gowns and jewelry, to see and be see
n. But to make the evening seem less superficial than it actually was, money from the overpriced tickets was donated to charity, and the Westbrook Crystal Recognition of Achievement Award, named after some old geezer who died back in the ’40s, or something, was presented to a select few sons and daughters for their achievements, academic or otherwise.
Really, it was just an excuse to brag about your child and force other parents to sit and listen, something parents—well, most parents—seem to like to do.
I’d never been given one of the awards, but my older brother had, upon his appointment to the Air Force Academy; I was still holding my breath over my younger sister.
“I didn’t know Rebecca was getting an award,” I said.
So now it all made sense. No wonder she and her family were attending the charity gala, on the heels of Claudia’s death.
“I don’t know who her date will be. She’s rather a plain-looking little thing,” Mom said. Then she turned to me, and I saw that gleam in her eye that I’d learned to recognize—and run from—long ago.
“I’ve got class,” I announced, and dashed into the house.
No way was I hanging around for Mom to ask me who I was going to the charity gala with. Ty had insisted he’d come back from Europe in time, but since he hadn’t even returned my phone calls, I wasn’t about to give Mom that little chunk of info.
I got in my car and headed for the freeway. I absolutely could not show up at the gala without a date, so I would have to come up with somebody.
My cell phone rang and my heart jumped; I was thinking that finally Ty had returned my call. But when I looked at the caller ID I saw that it was Doug, and he’d left me a voice message. I merged onto the freeway, watching traffic with one eye as I listened.
“Hello, Haley, this is Doug,” he said. “I just wanted you to know that I was thinking about you. And, by the way, I forgot to ask what your favorite color is. Hope your day goes well.”
I looked down at the phone, then put it to my ear and played the message again.
He wanted to know my favorite color? What was with this guy?
Okay, it was weird, but it was kind of nice, too. Ty had never asked what my favorite color was. Of course, I’d never asked Ty that question, either, but that’s not the point.
I pulled into the Holt’s parking lot and got to the employee break room two long minutes before my shift started. Everyone waiting in line glared at me—I guess they were still miffed about the whole rabies shot thing—so I gazed across the room, as if I was thinking about something important.
Standing at the microwave was someone I’d never seen before. A new employee, probably. She looked really good—
Oh my God. That wasn’t a new employee. It was that girl who’d lost about forty pounds. Only now she looked like she’d lost even more weight; plus, she didn’t have on those black-frame glasses she always wore. I guessed she’d gotten contact lenses. She looked really good.
I started to go over and tell her—and not just because she, unlike every other person in the room, would be compelled to speak to me—but the time clock thunked and the line moved forward. I punched in, checked the work schedule, and headed to the sales floor.
I’d only gotten a few feet when I saw Jeanette. The dress she had on—a Holt’s original, obviously—was a gray, brown, and black swirl pattern. From behind, it looked like two groundhogs in a logrolling contest.
She stopped suddenly and spun around, watching as everyone exited the break room and headed for their assigned department.
“Haley, could I see you for a moment?” she called.
Okay, this must be something good. The store manager had better things to do than hang around outside the break room to speak with a lowly minimum-wage peon like me. Besides, if she had bad news, she’d ask me to come to her office—I knew this from personal experience.
“You received this here at the store.” Jeanette pulled an envelope from her pocket and held it out.
I froze. Was there a card with cute little dogs on it inside? Along with a kind of weird, sort of creepy drawing? Was it from Ty? Or some psycho whack job who’d somehow tracked me down?
When I didn’t reach for the envelope right away, Jeanette apparently felt she had to explain further. She held it out and squinted.
“It’s from the Cuddly Creatures,” she said, “whatever that is.”
I ripped open the envelope as I headed across the store, and immediately my blood started to boil.
The Cuddly Creatures wanted me on their Web site, according to the note inside. Bad enough that the pet rescue Sandy’s mother worked with had elected me their president; now another one wanted to plaster my face all over their site.
Great. Just great. My worst fear come true. I was now, officially, the Cat Lady of Holt’s.
And all because my name and face had been splashed all over the television and newspaper, courtesy of those reporters.
Well, I wasn’t taking this. No way.
I spun around and went back into the employee break room, grabbed my cell phone out of my purse, and stomped back to the stockroom—the only place in the store I could have an uninterrupted personal conversation on company time.
I had called 4-1-1 and gotten the number of the television station that had interviewed me, ready to blast that reporter for putting me in this situation, when it occurred to me that they might record all of their incoming calls, and that my hysterical voice—with most words bleeped out—might headline tonight’s eleven o’clock news.
I hung up, punched 4-1-1 again, and called the L.A. Daily Courier. It took a while for Ben Oliver to come on the line, so I had a little time to calm down and come up with a plan, in case the newspaper recorded its incoming calls as well.
“Oliver,” he said, sounding bored.
“This is Haley Randolph, remember me?”
“Yeah, the cats,” he said, and I’m pretty sure he yawned.
“How about murder?” I suggested.
“How about it?” he echoed.
I pictured him sitting forward at his desk, grabbing up a pen to take notes.
“Come to the store,” I told him. “If you want info, be here in fifteen minutes.”
I hung up.
Okay, okay, I know the whole thing was sort of cloak-and-dagger, and I had no intention of telling him anything about Claudia’s murder. But he was responsible—partially, anyway—for this weird turn my life had taken, and he needed to hear about it.
Instead of going to my assigned department, I hung out in the Junior’s section by the front door—careful to avoid all customers, of course—and watched the parking lot. When I saw Ben headed toward the building—in only seventeen minutes from the time of my call—I went outside and intercepted him.
“Over here,” I said, and led him to the corner of the building where no one would see us.
He glanced back and forth, and said, “What have you got for me?”
“Are you recording this?” I asked.
Ben shook his head. “No.”
I nodded toward the parking lot. “Is your photographer friend out there, snapping pictures of us?”
He frowned, as if he thought I’d watched too many movies.
“It’s just you and me,” he said.
“Good, here’s something I want you to see.”
I pulled the envelope from Cuddly Creatures out of my back pocket.
“Look at this! Look at what you’ve done!” I shouted. I slammed it against his chest—he didn’t flinch or even fall back a step, which was sort of hot—and shouted, “I told you I didn’t want to be in your story! I told you not to write about me! But you did! And look what you’ve turned me into—the Cat Lady of Holt’s!”
Ben took the envelope from me, opened it, and read the note inside. He studied it for a minute, then shook his head.
“I don’t understand what this has to do with me,” he said.
Was this guy an idiot, or what? No wonder his editor had him doing fluff pi
eces.
“This is a pet rescue,” I said, jabbing my finger at the note. “They want to put me on their Web site. I’m going to end up with every pet rescue wanting to—”
Ben snickered. He pressed his lips together, but a giggle slipped out, which just made me madder.
“This isn’t funny!” I shouted. “You’ve—”
“This isn’t a pet rescue,” he said, still trying hard not to smile. “Cuddly Creatures is a porn site.”
I just stood there. I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t even process what he’d said.
“It’s a—” I tried to say the words, but couldn’t.
“Porn site.” Ben shook his head. “Not that I go in for that sort of thing myself, but word gets around.”
Oh my God. Oh my God. A porn site wanted me? This could not be happening.
“This is a mistake,” I said, shaking my head really hard to demonstrate that I was correct. “Why would they contact me?”
“You tell me.” Ben pulled a notebook from his pocket and opened it.
Oh my God, he intended to write about this for the newspaper?
“No!” I shouted, and grabbed for the notebook. He was quicker, though, and pulled it away.
“You called me out here for a story, and believe me, this is a big one,” he said, grinning.
The image of the Biltmore charity gala flashed in my head, and all my mother’s uppity, snooty, beauty-queen cult friends whispering and pointing when I walked in. My dad at work. My brother in the Middle East. What would they say when friends showed them the story? Doug would never speak to me—and I’d started to like him a little. And what about Ty? What about his grandmother? If she’d killed Claudia because she wasn’t good enough for Ty, what would she do to me if I were linked to a porn site?
“If you write this story—if you even think about writing it—I’ll sue you, your editor, the newspaper—everybody,” I told him. “My family will own your newspaper.”
“Sounds like a good lead.” Ben jotted on his notepad. “‘Heiress threatens reporter to keep porn life secret.’”
“Don’t you dare write that,” I told him.
Purses and Poison Page 17
