Purses and Poison

by Dorothy Howell

  I took the wide staircase up to the second floor. The house was built in the ’30’s, or something, and had a classic, old-world feel to it, with dark woods and high ceilings.

  Several years ago, Mom had knocked out a few walls at the rear of the house and created a huge master suite, with giant walk-in closets—one for each season, plus a smaller one that my dad was allowed to use—an expansive bath area, and a retreat with a fireplace. She decorated it in a dozen shades of beige and white. It suited her.

  I spotted her reclining on the chaise on the balcony that overlooked the garden, wrapped in a thick white terry robe with a towel around her hair. A heavy facial mask covered her cheeks, chin, and forehead, and cucumber slices rested on her eyelids.

  “Hi, Mom,” I called, stepping outside. “Where’s—”

  “Aspen,” she said. When I pulled up, I hadn’t seen my sister’s car in the driveway. She always—always—got here before I did.

  “She’s not going tonight?” I asked, stunned.

  “Skiing with her new boyfriend,” Mom said. “He’s French.”

  My heart jumped, sending my stomach for a quick lurch. My sister wasn’t here? She was in Aspen? I’d have Mom all to myself tonight?

  The idea whipped through my mind—which was majorly childish, I know—but it zinged me pretty good. For once, I wouldn’t have to see the two of them with their heads together, whispering about something or someone they figured I wouldn’t understand or care about. Wow, how cool was this?

  “Your father and I are flying up to meet him,” Mom said.

  The little zing in my stomach morphed into a painful zap. I whirled and saw two open suitcases in the bedroom.

  Oh my God. Mom and Dad weren’t going to the charity gala tonight, after all? They’d made other plans and hadn’t told me?

  Or did Mom not want to go to the Biltmore because my sister wouldn’t be there?

  Yeah, okay, I knew Mom and I hadn’t had the closest of relationships, but it worked for us—at least, I thought it had.

  First Ty had blown me off, now my parents?

  “So we’re…we’re canceling for the gala tonight?” I asked. I tried not to sound hurt or, worse, childish, but didn’t quite pull it off.

  Mom raised her head slightly, lifted a cucumber slice, and opened one eye.

  “Of course not, sweetie. We’re flying up tomorrow.” She replaced the cucumber slice and reclined on the chaise once more. “Have Juanita bring us more wine, would you? Then sit with me. I want to hear all about Doug.”

  Over the next few hours Mom and I were massaged, polished, buffed, plucked, powdered, and styled from almost every conceivable angle. We talked about absolutely everyone and everything imaginable. We had wine. We giggled. And finally, we were ready to leave for the Biltmore.

  Mom looked chic in a champagne-colored, draped, vintage Halston gown. The diamond bracelet and earrings she wore—passed down to her by her grandmother—completed the look to perfection.

  I wore a sleek, chocolate-brown Dior gown with a sweetheart bodice that required a strapless bra—it wasn’t really a special occasion without uncomfortable underwear. My hair was styled in a simple, carefree updo that had taken the stylist ninety minutes to create, and was held in place with enough spray to stop a bird in flight.

  Mom and I gave ourselves one final check in the mirror.

  “You look stunning, Haley,” she said, covering me with her critical gaze. “Absolutely—”

  She gasped and her eyes widened, sending me into panic mode.

  Oh my God. Had she seen a loose thread? A speck of lint? Was I wearing something wrong?

  Then her features settled into humble reverence and she whispered, “Is that a Judith Leiber you’re carrying?”

  Raw admiration shone in her eyes as I lifted the bag and held it between us.

  “Austrian crystals,” I said—actually, I think I moaned—“elegantly handcrafted.”

  “With a satin lining,” Mom responded.

  “It came in a gorgeous box,” I whispered; then in unison we said, “With a keepsake bag.”

  Mom looked at me as if I were onstage at the Biltmore, receiving a coveted Westbrook Crystal Recognition of Achievement Award.

  I had never felt so proud in my life.

  Dressed in tuxedos, my dad and Doug waited at the foot of the stairs as we descended. They’d probably gotten ready in less than fifteen minutes.

  Dad came forward, told Mom how elegant she looked, and offered his arm; he knew better than to kiss her and risk damaging her makeup.

  Honestly, I never understood the attraction between my mom and dad. He was an aerospace engineer and my mom was—well, to be generous, I’ll just say that she wasn’t like him. They seemed to have nothing in common.

  But he loved her. You could see it in the way he looked at her, the way he touched her, the way he indulged her. Mom, I think, loved him for those same reasons.

  I didn’t understand their relationship, but hey, I didn’t have to. It worked for them.

  “You look beautiful tonight,” Doug said to me, and seemed to be a bit breathless.

  “You look very handsome yourself,” I told him, and it was true. For a guy who probably seldom—if ever—wore a tux, he filled it out nicely.

  The limousine Mom had arranged for waited in the driveway, and whisked us away.

  Why hadn’t Ty called?

  The thought bounced around in my mind as the limo glided onto the freeway.

  He had promised he would leave Europe, come home so we could go to the Biltmore together tonight. He had sworn I would see a different side of him.

  For all he knew, I was standing by, waiting for him to arrive. And not only was he not here, he hadn’t even called.

  I glanced at Doug. He and my dad were talking about airplanes, or something. Doug was a nice enough guy, but jeez, why wasn’t Ty here instead?

  The Biltmore Hotel—it was officially named the Millennium Biltmore, but almost no one called it that—was located in the heart of downtown Los Angeles on Grand Avenue. Its Italian-Renaissance architecture offered historic grandeur with modern convenience. The Academy Award Ceremony was held there back in the ’30s and ’40s; celebrities, presidents, and dignitaries visited regularly.

  I just thought it was a cool place to go.

  Mom filled Doug in on the hotel’s eighty-some-year history as our limo swung into line behind the other limos and expensive cars at the hotel’s entrance. He soaked it up—I think he was actually interested in the details, which was kind of weird—as the uniformed valet opened the limo doors for us.

  Entering the Biltmore on a night like this was beyond awesome. The lobby was huge, with a mural behind the front desk, a fountain, hardwood floors, ornate carpets, and a soft lighting from the huge fixture overhead.

  Dozens of couples, all dressed in gorgeous gowns and terrific tuxedos, moved along with us. Everyone spoke in quiet voices, exchanging pleasant greetings, or simply nodding. Classical piano music played from somewhere. I held my Judith Leiber evening bag so that everyone would see it and be envious.

  We turned right into the main galleria, our heels clicking on the expensive floor, above us a dramatic coffered ceiling.

  Mom sidled up next to me.

  “Do you see what Maxine Davis is wearing?” she whispered, managing to speak without actually moving her lips or allowing her composed demeanor to slip, thanks to her beauty pageant training.

  I waited the required four seconds before glancing Maxine’s way and, thanks to my fifty percent beauty queen genes, refrained from shrieking in horror at the Marge-hair blue gown she had on.

  “What is that woman thinking?” Mom demanded.

  I love it when Mom talks smack about people.

  We moved with the crowd up the stairs and into the Crystal Ballroom, an elegant space filled with golds, bronzes, mirrors, columns, and heavy drapes.

  Two crystal chandeliers and dozens of candle wall sconces lit the grand room with soft
light. The ceiling was painted with images of angels, cherubs, and urns; the carpet was woven with an intricate pattern of greens and reds.

  The round tables were set with elegant gold china and treated with white linens and rich orange and red floral centerpieces. At the front of the room sat the stage where the awards would be handed out, along with the dance floor that would be utilized after the presentations. Along each side of the room were balconies where additional tables were set.

  We found our table. I figured Mom would want to sit boy-girl-boy-girl, as usual, which would put me between Dad and Doug. Being seated between two aerospace engineers was great if you were taking a written test, but not so hot if you were hoping for lively conversation to get you through a long evening.

  Just as Doug pulled out my chair, Mom said, “Haley, sweetie, sit next to me.”

  At first I thought I hadn’t heard her right, but she patted the chair next to her as she allowed Dad to seat her.

  Oh my God. Oh my God. My mom wanted me to sit next to her? Mom was breaking the boy-girl-boy-girl rule—for me?

  I settled into my chair between Mom and Doug and placed my evening bag prominently on the table. It was tough to make women in this crowd jealous, but a Judith Leiber evening bag would do it.

  Lots of people stopped at our table. Greetings were exchanged and Doug was introduced. He did okay, but I figured he must be a little overwhelmed.

  I know I was. But not from the elegant surrounds or the wealthy company—I’d been attending these kinds of things for years—it was because of Mom.

  I’d never sat next to her before. If anyone did—other than my dad—it was my sister. They were alike. They belonged together.

  But there I was, sitting beside Mom, the two of us whispering back and forth, admiring—or verbally trashing—the gowns, hairstyle, jewelry, and dates of everyone around us. For once, I had Mom all to myself.

  Yeah, okay, I know it sounds silly, and I should have outgrown that feeling long ago, but it was great.

  This is what it would always be like, if my sister weren’t around. Not that I wished her any harm, of course, but her Aspen ski trip with her new French boyfriend couldn’t have worked out better—for me.

  The other people who rounded out our table for ten joined us and the room settled down as dinner was served. Over the hushed voices and the clink of silver against china, I spotted the Cameron family seated at a table nearby.

  Ty flashed in my head.

  Discreetly, I checked my cell phone in my purse. I’d put it on vibrate just in case he called—not that I’d speak to him if he did, but still.

  My heart jumped. I had a message waiting.

  I checked the caller ID, formulating in my head how I’d blast him for not calling, not arriving, not coming through on his promise—for, essentially, being himself—and saw that the call wasn’t from Ty. I didn’t recognize the name and, really, if it wasn’t Ty, I didn’t care who had called. I put my phone away.

  My stomach felt a little queasy at the thought of how the evening would have turned out if I’d taken him at his word, if I hadn’t invited Doug.

  An empty chair beside me; all of Mom’s friends stopping by, asking who we were expecting; everybody staring, wondering who had stood me up.

  How embarrassing would that have been?

  Mom sure as heck wouldn’t have wanted me sitting next to her.

  Mom leaned over and commented about the fine line between daring and slutty in making a gown selection, just as my gaze landed on Rebecca Gray. She sat with her parents at a table near the front of the room, along with the other recipients of the Crystal Recognition of Achievement Award.

  Rebecca seemed to be trying to make the best of the evening, her dad resembled a zombie, and her mom looked ready to bolt for the door.

  I felt kind of guilty for thinking how glad I was that my sister wasn’t here tonight.

  “Rebecca’s parents look like they don’t even want to be here,” I said to Mom.

  Discreetly, she glanced their way, then turned up her nose, ever so slightly.

  “Cynthia wouldn’t be here, if it weren’t for Claudia’s death,” Mom said, then added, “You’d think she could make an effort, for appearance’s sake.”

  I looked at Cynthia, then at Mom again, sure I’d misunderstood.

  “Cynthia wasn’t supposed to be here tonight?” I asked.

  “Of course not,” Mom said. “She was going with Claudia to Europe.”

  I still thought I hadn’t heard right.

  “Cynthia hadn’t intended to be here? Tonight? When Rebecca got her award?” I asked.

  “She always traveled with Claudia,” Mom said.

  Oh my God. I could only imagine how proud Rebecca must have been when she learned she was receiving an award, then how hurt when her own mother told her she wouldn’t attend the presentation. If it hadn’t been for Claudia’s murder, Cynthia would be in Europe tonight and—

  Hang on a minute.

  A big picture of Rebecca bloomed in my head, a picture of the day I went by the Gray house and talked to Rebecca in the study. She seemed devastated that Claudia had died. She told me it wasn’t supposed to be like that, or something. I thought she meant that someone as young, talented, and beautiful as Claudia wasn’t supposed to die, but now I wasn’t so sure.

  Rebecca had given me that list of suspects. The list that led nowhere.

  Nobody had heard about the stalker Rebecca claimed was terrorizing Claudia.

  Nobody knew about the pageant mom Rebecca claimed was angry with Claudia, the woman I assumed was arguing with her at the luncheon. When I asked around, everyone said they saw someone arguing with Claudia. Someone young, one of the models, they thought, not a mom.

  Rebecca was there that day, at the luncheon. She dropped by to bring Claudia’s passport.

  Rebecca was young and small. She could easily be mistaken for a model.

  Maybe Debbie had told me the truth. Maybe the argument she overheard was between Claudia and Rebecca.

  If all that were true, it would mean—

  “I’ll be right back,” I whispered to Mom, and left the table.

  I hurried out of the Crystal Ballroom, down the stairs, and headed left through the main galleria. Ahead were big glass doors that led to the smoking area. It was the nearest place I could go for a private conversation.

  Luckily, there was no wind—not that my hair would move, anyway—and only one guy was out there. I fished my cell phone from my purse and called Detective Shuman. I got his voice mail, so I left a message and went back inside.

  The dessert course was being served as I sat down at the table again. My insides were jiggly, thinking that across the room, only a few feet away sat Rebecca, who had murdered her sister.

  I drew a breath. I had to relax. I didn’t want to give anything away by my expression. I absolutely, positively had to remain calm. I couldn’t let anything rattle me.

  “Good evening,” someone said from behind me.

  I turned in my chair. Ty stood beside our table.

  Oh, crap.

  Chapter 25

  Oh my God. Ty looked handsome—beyond handsome, actually. He wore a fantastic Armani tux, his hair shimmered, his eyes sparkled; the lighting in here was really working for him.

  My heart fluttered as he gazed down at me with that special look that could only mean—

  Wait a minute.

  Ty’s special look seemed, well, sort of angry. His gaze swept the table. No empty chair for him. Another man beside me, obviously my date.

  Okay, this was uncomfortable.

  Ty spoke to everyone at the table—except me—shook hands with all the men, then left.

  Oh my God. Oh my God. He hadn’t contacted me once while he was gone, he hadn’t called to confirm he’d be here, he showed up late—and he had the nerve to be angry at me?

  “Excuse me,” I said, and left the table.

  I caught sight of Ty in the main galleria, heading for the Fif
th Street exit. I raced after him—as fast as I could in a tight gown, strapless bra, and three-inch heels.

  “Ty?” I called.

  He whirled around. The pleasant expression he’d maintained in the ballroom had vanished, anger in its place—and I didn’t need to be his sort-of girlfriend to see it.

  “What the hell is going on?” he demanded, gesturing toward the ballroom. “I’ve been working twenty-four-seven, busting my ass to get here tonight, and you’re with some other man?”

  “I didn’t think you’d make it,” I explained.

  “I told you I’d be here!”

  “And why should I have believed you?” I shouted back. “You’re totally, completely unreliable. You never show up on time—and tonight proves it!”

  Ty glared at me, more angry than ever because I was right and there was nothing he could say to refute it.

  He tried another tactic. “You could have had a little faith in me, Haley. A little faith in us.”

  Okay, now I was really angry.

  “I didn’t hear a word from you while you were gone—not one word,” I told him.

  “What are you talking about?” he demanded.

  I ignored his question.

  “I didn’t know if you were going to show up or not,” I told him. “Did you expect me to miss out on being here tonight? Or sit here with no date?”

  Ty shook his head. “I don’t understand what you’re talking—”

  “It’s simple, Ty. You don’t have time for me. I’m going to spend this evening with someone who does.”

  I spun around and marched back to the Crystal Ballroom. Ty didn’t follow, but I didn’t think he would—and I was glad he didn’t. Anger and hurt rumbled inside me, and if he came after me and apologized or something, I would have cried—and totally ruined my makeup.

  I paused at the entrance to the ballroom and drew in a cleansing breath. Inside were people who cared about me, who wanted to be with me tonight. My parents. Friends. Doug—especially Doug.

  Yeah, okay, he was kind of boring and I never listened to much of what he had to say, but he’d been nice to me, really nice.