Purses and Poison

by Dorothy Howell

  So I sniffed and tipped up my glass, finishing off my beer in a couple of big gulps.

  “That was quite a scene,” someone said.

  The guy at the bar had turned on his stool and was looking at me.

  “Real tender,” he said sarcastically. “I missed tonight’s deadline, but it will look great in Monday’s edition. Probably get me front page, above the fold.”

  Oh my God. Ben Oliver. The reporter from the Daily Courier.

  “What are you doing here?” I blurted out.

  “Guess you didn’t recognize me in this rig, huh?” he said, and touched his lapels.

  He had on a tuxedo, sort of. The bow tie dangled around his neck, the top button of his shirt collar was open. The sleeves were a little short. He looked rumpled and shaggy.

  “Twenty-bucks-a-night rental at Wal-Mart,” he said. “Nothing but the best for a night like this.”

  “You were in the Crystal Ballroom? For the award presentations?” I asked. It came out sounding kind of shocked because, really, I was shocked.

  Ben picked up his drink and rose from his stool. He strolled over, swirling his glass.

  “I wanted to thank you for the tip,” he said. “Cecil Hartley?”

  Oh my God. I’d forgotten all about the definitely missing, supposedly dead Cecil Hartley.

  “Did you find him?” I asked, desperate to hear some good news tonight.

  Ben studied his glass for a moment, then nodded. “My editor loved it. Ran with it. Flew me to Arizona. Called in favors from every law enforcement agency from here to the New Mexico border. Had forensic experts and criminal lawyers lined up for quotes, television news teams standing by, a helicopter ready to lift off. My editor spared no expense, exhausted every resource imaginable.”

  Another death. I didn’t think I could take any more tonight, after listening to Rebecca, knowing what she’d done to her sister and Jamie. I didn’t want to hear the details of Cecil’s demise.

  “At least the truth is out,” I said, “and you’re back in your editor’s good graces.”

  “Not exactly.”

  Ben studied his drink for a moment, swirled it a few times, then took a sip and looked up at me.

  “Cecil Hartley is alive and well, enjoying his new life with his new girlfriend.”

  “What?”

  “Seems old Cecil was fed up with that daughter of his sticking her nose in his business, sick of neighbors spying on him, tired of living in the same house, on the same street, in the same town, doing what everybody else thought he ought to do,” Ben said. “So he packed up the new girlfriend in the new RV and left.”

  “But Evelyn saw the RV at the house. Barb was there, but not Cecil.”

  Ben nodded. “Cecil needed some things from the house but didn’t want to show his face, afraid some of the neighbors might be watching. Imagine that.”

  I squirmed on the stool.

  “I guess your editor isn’t so happy with you,” I said. I left “because of the tip I gave you” unspoken. “But, hey, you must have made major points with him tonight for being on the scene when Claudia’s murderer was arrested.”

  Ben took another sip of his drink. “I was in the ballroom, covering the award presentations, when that went down.”

  “Oh.”

  “Tomorrow I’m covering a fishing derby. After that, the Little Miss Community pageant. And later this week, I’m interviewing a grandma who self-published a book on how to make your own brown sugar.”

  Ben drained his glass and placed it on my table, then walked away. At the door, he turned back.

  “So thanks for the tip,” he called. “I’ll remember it…Randi.”

  Oh, crap.

  Chapter 27

  Two blocks from Evelyn’s house, I phoned her. I figured she’d be up, even though it was barely past eight on a Sunday morning. Her voice was muffled, like I’d awakened her, but she told me to come on over.

  I wasn’t really up for her tea and brick cookie service at this early hour, but I had to talk to her and I couldn’t wait. I might chicken out, if I did.

  For a while now I’d been thinking that my life needed to take a different direction. Standing alone in the main galleria at the Biltmore last night, wondering how I’d get home, I figured out some of it.

  I called Marcie—what are best friends for?—and she came immediately. We sat on my sofa for a couple of hours talking things out. She said I was crazy, and while Marcie is almost always right about things, I had to go with my gut on this one.

  I swung around the corner onto Evelyn’s street just as a Mercedes pulled away from her house. It shot past me in a blur, but I caught a glimpse of the driver’s face.

  Was that Bradley Olsen? From the GSB & T?

  I craned my neck looking in my rearview mirror, my side mirror, trying for another angle. The Mercedes disappeared around the corner.

  Okay, that was weird. Was that really Mr. Olsen? What the heck would he be doing at Evelyn’s house? At this hour of the—

  Oh my God.

  I nearly ran my car up on the curb.

  Evelyn and Mr. Olsen? Together?

  Well, at least somebody had a hot night.

  I parked, rang the bell, shouted my name, and Evelyn let me in. She looked immaculate, as always, wearing khaki pants, a peach blouse, and an unusually wide smile.

  “Good morning, Haley,” Evelyn said. “Come in. Let me get us some tea.”

  “No, thanks,” I said, following her into the living room. “Listen, I’ll make this quick. I need you to go see Bradley Olsen with me tomorrow morning.”

  Evelyn froze. “At the Golden State Bank and Trust office?”

  “I need to talk to Mr. Olsen about the money you’re holding in your account for me,” I said.

  Her brows drew together. “Did you need to buy new school books? Something for your classes?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “I want to talk to Mr. Olsen about something.”

  I’d said Bradley Olsen’s name three times now, but Evelyn hadn’t broken down and confessed anything. In fact, she barely blinked an eye, which was kind of disappointing. Maybe I’d been wrong.

  “Well, Haley, you know I gave my word I wouldn’t let you spend this money on anything except school supplies or medical emergencies, or things like that,” Evelyn pointed out.

  “I want to set up a scholarship fund,” I told her. “In memory of Jamie Kirkwood.”

  With scholarships to students who didn’t have rich parents, a trust fund, or a college account, maybe they wouldn’t have to work every menial job they could get to make ends meet. Maybe they wouldn’t end up witnessing a murder. Maybe they wouldn’t end up dead.

  It bugged me that during Jamie’s short stay on this earth, so few people had known her, loved her, helped her. No parents, few friends, just another face in a sea of students. I wanted the world to remember she’d been here.

  “All of your money?” Evelyn asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “The whole eighty grand.”

  Marcie had told me last night that I should keep a little for myself, but I didn’t want to. I wasn’t so sure college was right for me anymore, and I could always make more money somewhere, doing something.

  Evelyn smiled. “That sounds like a wonderful idea.”

  “Oh, and Cecil Hartley? He’s fine. Living in Arizona with the new girlfriend,” I told her.

  Evelyn looked stunned. “But why hasn’t he come back? Why hasn’t he contacted anyone?”

  I thought the truth would hurt Christine and, probably, Evelyn, so I just said, “I think it’s part of his grieving process.”

  Evelyn looked as if she understood.

  I waited another few seconds, but Evelyn still didn’t say anything about her and Bradley Olsen, so I left.

  Of course, there were a zillion things I could do right now, I thought as I hit the freeway. Shopping, of course. A new purse. Yeah, that would boost my spirits.

  But I couldn’t quite bring myself to hi
t the mall right now, not when my entire future hung in the balance. I figured I’d go home, surf the Net, see what other opportunities I could come up with.

  I got a mocha Frappuccino at the Starbucks drive-through—just to energize my brain cells—and headed home.

  On the way I called Sandy. She didn’t answer, so I left a message saying that I had to resign as president of her mom’s pet rescue, but as a parting gift I was giving them a truckload of Purina cat food.

  The sewing machine that I won in the Holt’s raffle still sat in my living room when I walked in. Maybe I would start my own clothing company, or something. That sounded cool. Maybe I could design my own line of handbags. Cooler still.

  I grabbed a bag of Snickers bars from the kitchen and my laptop, ready to forge my future, when my doorbell rang. I looked out the peephole and saw a guy holding a floral arrangement.

  Okay, this was weird.

  I opened the door.

  “Delivery for Haley Randolph,” he said, and handed me a vase filled with red roses.

  They were gorgeous. I placed them on the end table beside my sofa and opened the card. My heart jumped.

  Ty.

  “Where do you want these?” the deliveryman asked.

  I turned and saw him holding a vase of yellow roses.

  “More flowers?” I blurted out, my eyes wide.

  The guy chuckled and gave me a crooked smile. “You must have given somebody one hell of a wild night.”

  Actually, I hadn’t given anyone a wild night in a really long time, which made this all the more weird.

  He stepped outside and brought in vase after vase of flowers. Spectacular arrangements in every color imaginable. I plucked off the cards.

  Oh my God. They were all from Ty.

  “Sign here,” the deliveryman said.

  I scribbled my name on his clipboard and handed it back.

  He squinted at me. “You look familiar. I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

  “I look like a porn star—a top-rated porn star—but I’m not,” I told him.

  He looked me up and down once more, then left.

  I stood in the center of my living room and counted the floral arrangements. One for every day Ty had been in Europe.

  It cheered me up a little to think that he had reamed Sarah Covington for not sending the flowers, as instructed. Nice to know that something good had come out of our breakup.

  The doorbell rang again.

  “Did you forget one?” I asked.

  I thought I would see the delivery guy standing there. I didn’t. It was Ty.

  My heart swelled. I wished it would quit doing that every time I saw him. Breaking up would be so much easier.

  Ty didn’t wait for an invitation. He strode inside, jaw set, expression grim.

  “Blue,” he said.

  I just looked at him.

  “Monday.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “Blue,” he said again. “Blue’s your favorite color.”

  I gasped, too stunned to say anything.

  “Monday,” he said. “We met on a Monday. In the break room at the store. You were reading People magazine and jacked up on chocolate.”

  “You…you remembered?”

  “You don’t have a favorite sports team because you don’t have enough patience to sit through a game,” Ty said. “And you don’t get to decide when it’s over between us. We’re in this relationship together. That means we decide things together. I get a vote, and I vote that we stay together.”

  “But things have always been so weird between us,” I said. “We never had sex.”

  “We’re fixing that before I leave here today. But right now we have to get this relationship worked out.”

  “Look, Ty, I appreciate the flowers, and you coming here,” I said. “But nothing’s changed. We still don’t belong together. I asked you last night to name one thing we have in common and you couldn’t.”

  Ty looked at me for a minute and his expression softened. I figured he didn’t have an answer, just like last night.

  “You’re right. I can’t recite a list of all the reasons I like you, or why we should be together, or everything we have in common,” he said. “I have advisers for everything. I read memos, reports, charts, and graphs. I analyze data to determine the best possible course of action.”

  He stopped and took a breath. My heart skipped a beat.

  “But when it comes to you, Haley, I don’t have to analyze anything. I don’t have to think. I just know,” Ty said. “And I know I’m crazy about you.”

  “Really?” I asked, my heart thundering in my chest.

  Ty came closer. He took both my hands and held them in his.

  “We can figure this out. We can find a way to make things work,” he said. “We just need to decide how to get started.”

  “You can make the big decisions,” I told Ty. “And I’ll make the small decisions.”

  He frowned. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course,” I said. “But I’ll decide which decisions are big, and which decisions are small.”

  Ty grinned. “Sounds good to me.”

  He drew me into his arms and kissed me. Wow, what a kiss. My knees went weak.

  He pulled away. “Come with me to Europe tonight.”

  “You have to go back? Tonight?” I asked, surprised.

  “I have to work but I’ll make sure I have every evening, every weekend free. I’ll take off as many afternoons as I can. We’ll see the sights together. It will be a great way for us to get back on track.”

  “I—I don’t know,” I stammered.

  “I’ll call my travel agent.” He pulled out his cell phone.

  My head spun. Europe? With Ty? Oh my God. He seemed different, and Europe was totally awesome, but—

  My cell phone rang. I flipped it open.

  “Are you ready to party?” a woman screeched in my ear.

  “Who is this?” I asked.

  “They make me say that,” she said, with a nervous laugh. “Haley, this is Mindy from L.A. Affairs. I was supposed to call you last week, but oh my goodness, that phone in the office. Gracious, it’s a real pill to work with. Listen, we need you to start work first thing in the morning.”

  I looked down at the phone, then put it to my ear again.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “The job of event planner you applied for, remember?” she said.

  I’d filled out an application as an excuse to talk to someone about Claudia. I’d forgotten all about it.

  “We’re in a real fix here,” Mindy said. She giggled. “Something kind of fell through the cracks, since we’ve been shorthanded. It’s a big deal. A really big deal, actually. That’s why we need you in the morning.”

  I glanced across the room at Ty, still talking to his travel agent.

  “It’s a huge bash honoring the legacy of a handbag designer,” Mindy said.

  I perked up. “Handbags?”

  “All the designers will be there. Marc Jacobs, Kate Spade, and—oh, there are lots more,” Mindy said. “Oh, you should see the gift bags.”

  “Gift bags?” My breathing got heavy. “Who’s being honored?”

  Mindy giggled. “Oh, goodness, now, let me think. It’s, oh, it’s somebody who’s dead—or maybe still alive. I don’t know. The name is—oh yes, it’s Judith Leiber.”

  “Judith Leiber?”

  “Have you heard of her?” Mindy asked.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of her,” I said—actually, I think I moaned.

  “Then you’re just the person we need!” Mindy declared.

  My doorbell rang. The way my luck was running, I expected to see the Prize Patrol waiting.

  “Can you be here first thing in the morning?” Mindy asked.

  I opened the door. No one was there. An envelope stuck out from under my welcome mat.

  “Haley?” Ty called. “I’ve got a seat for you.”

  I pic
ked up the envelope and pulled out a slip of paper.

  “Haley?” Mindy asked in my ear. “Tomorrow morning?”

  “Haley?” Ty said again. “What’s it going to be?”

  On the paper, someone had scrawled, “You’ve been warned.”

  Oh, crap.

  Fashionista and amateur sleuth Haley Randolph is in hot pursuit of the season’s newest must-have handbag. But soon she’s also in hot pursuit of a killer—when she discovers the corpse of none other than her designer purse party rival…

  Life is beyond fabulous at the moment for Haley Randolph. She just spent two amazing weeks in Europe with her boyfriend Ty Cameron, owner of Holt’s Department Store, where Haley works. And now Ty’s grandmother, Ada, is letting Haley drive her way-cool Mercedes. Things would be perfect if she could just get her hands on her latest fashion obsession: the new Sinful handbag.

  Every store in town is out of stock, and Haley would rather die than buy a knockoff. But when she finds the body of her nemesis, Tiffany Markham, in the trunk of Ada’s Mercedes, she’s not so sure she wants to trade places after all…

  Topping the list of suspects, Haley doesn’t deny seeing red when Tiffany and her business partner not only stole her purse party idea, but also made more money. But Haley wasn’t jealous enough to commit murder. Now she’ll have to solve this mystery quickly—and find that Sinful bag—before she becomes a killer’s next fashion fatality…

  Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of

  Dorothy Howell’s

  SHOULDER BAGS AND SHOOTINGS

  coming next month!

  Chapter 1

  Good thing I had on a seatbelt. Otherwise, I might have launched myself out of my seat—not good, cruising at thirty thousand feet.

  I was on an airplane and I’d just spotted the new Sinful handbag in Elle magazine. Oh my God, it was fabulous. And believe me, I know a fabulous purse when I see one.

  I perked up in my seat, beyond excited, way past thrilled, bordering on crazed, and desperate to share my discovery with someone. The cabin was dark—first class passengers were so boring—and I was the only one still awake.

  I hate it when that happens.