Tote Bags and Toe Tags

by Dorothy Howell

  I’d been given a lot of gift cards from department stores for graduation presents, but after Violet had burst my I’m-going-to-make-bank-working-here bubble during orientation with that whole background investigation/security clearance thing, I hadn’t been too excited about laying in a supply of black, brown, and navy blue business suits.

  But who knew when all that would be sorted out. Days? Weeks? Months, maybe? I definitely had to get some new clothes.

  My cell phone rang, which was weird because it was only a little after 7:30, way early for anyone to call.

  My stomach did its this-can’t-be-good roll. What if it was Adela from Dempsey Rowland? What if she was calling to tell me they’d completed my background check already, and not to bother coming to work today?

  Since I’m not big on suspense, I looked at the caller I.D. screen. Mom was calling. Okay, this was way weird.

  “Haley, you have to come over immediately,” Mom said when I answered. “Something terrible has happened.”

  With her history of holding the crowns of Miss California and third runner-up in the Miss America contest, Mom lived in what I call the “pageant universe.” The pageant universe—complete with its own time zone—existed in an alternate reality. Time, space, and the three dimensions the rest of us live in didn’t apply to Mom.

  Her frantic phone call at this early hour insisting something terrible had happened didn’t upset me. For Mom, it could mean that her Vanity Fair had arrived in the mail with a crease in the cover, or that some hapless shoe salesman in Neiman Marcus had brought her open-toe, slingback pumps in the size that fit her, rather than the size she actually wore.

  “I’ve got to get to work,” I said.

  “It’s Juanita,” Mom said.

  Juanita was Mom’s housekeeper. She’d worked there for as long as I could remember.

  “What’s up with Juanita?” I asked.

  “She’s dead.”

  I grew up in a great house in La Cañada Flintridge that was built back in the 1920s, or something, and had been left to my mom by her grandmother, along with a trust fund. Nobody in the family knew—or was willing to tell—exactly what my great-grandmother had done to acquire what amounted to a small mansion on a prestigious hillside that overlooked the L.A. basin, or to establish a trust fund for my mother, of all people.

  In another yet unexplained twist of fate, Mom had been grateful enough to give me, her oldest female child, great-grandma’s name. So here I was attempting to skip lightly through life with the middle name of “Thelma.”

  Leave it to family.

  It was a great house to grow up in. I couldn’t remember living anywhere else. I lived there with my older brother—now an air force pilot flying F-16s in the Middle East—along with my younger sister, who attended college and modeled. And my dad, of course, who was an aerospace engineer. In what I thought of as one of life’s greatest mysteries—sort of like the origin of the pyramids—Dad had somehow managed to stay married to my mom all these years.

  As far back as I could remember, we’d had a lot of household staff—believe me, Mom went through quite a few people. Gardeners, housekeepers, an herb garden advisor—organic food, anyone?—window washers, a pool service, an indoor plant service—Mom’s interpretation of going green—a tropical fish tank service, nannies, chimney sweeps, decorators, landscape architects, mural artists, caterers, cooks, a Feng Shui master, a sand castle–building coach—don’t ask—not to mention the parade of personal assistants Mom had, no doubt, sent running back to college determined to get a real job.

  But Juanita had always been there. I couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t been in the house offering a kind smile, quiet words of encouragement, and promises of better things to come.

  And, believe me, I needed it, especially during those years when Mom had subjected me to a battery of lessons—singing, tap, modeling, ballet, piano—in a desperate attempt to unearth some tiny nugget of natural talent in me. Juanita had even been there for me when I set fire to the den curtains while twirling fire batons—it was an accident, I swear. Kind of. Sort of. Well, anyway, the incident had gotten me out of taking any more lessons—that and the fact that my little sister became Mom’s Mini-Me.

  I didn’t wait to hear what else Mom had to say about Juanita’s death. I threw on the first business suit I got my hands on in my closet, then called Dempsey Rowland and left a message on Constance’s voicemail that I’d be late for work, using the I-have-a-flat-tire excuse—everybody knew it was a lie, but, oh well—and hauled out to Mom’s house.

  I was frantic. I hadn’t asked Mom for details about Juanita’s death on the phone because I knew she wouldn’t make any sense and I wouldn’t have the patience to try and figure it out—which pretty much summed up the ongoing state of our mother-daughter relationship.

  I swung into the circular driveway in front of my folks’ house, dreading the thought of seeing ambulances, fire trucks, cop cars, and plain vanilla detective-mobiles parked in front, maybe even a news helicopter circling overhead. I didn’t want to see one of those big ugly black body bags, knowing Juanita was inside it.

  But when I pulled up, the driveway was empty. Huh. That was odd. Had emergency services come and gone already? Had Juanita died a few days ago and Mom forgot to tell me?

  I left my car and hurried to the door. It opened as I approached. Mom stood in the foyer wearing a silk caftan, gold earrings, necklace, and bracelet, and two-inch heels. She had on makeup and her hair was styled in a tight updo.

  Mom always dressed as if Extra would burst into her home at any second and film her for a “Former Beauty Queens, Where Are They Now?” segment, or something.

  “Oh my gosh, Mom, what happened to Juanita?” I asked.

  “That’s exactly what I’d like to know,” she announced as she closed the front door.

  I looked around. I saw no one. The house was deadly silent. No low voices of detectives, no squawking police radios, no sign of my dad or sister.

  “Where is everybody?” I asked.

  “Good question,” she said to me, and headed through the house toward the kitchen.

  Mom bypassed the kitchen, of course, and went straight into the little dining room nearby. She stood by the glass slider and gazed outside in a pageant stance—chin high, shoulders up, back straight—as if she suspected the paparazzi were lurking in the rose bushes snapping photos.

  “You told me Juanita was dead,” I said, and flung my hands out. “Where is she?”

  Mom turned to her right, as if offering her profile to the nonexistent photographers outside. “I have no idea,” she said.

  “Then how do you know she’s dead?” I asked.

  “She isn’t here,” Mom said, as if the answer were obvious. “She reports for work at seven-thirty and she’s not here. She must be dead.”

  I’m pretty sure I was switched at birth.

  “It’s not even eight-thirty yet,” I said. “Maybe she’s just running late.”

  “Juanita is never late. Not once in all these years,” Mom said.

  Okay, that was true, but there were a lot of reasons she might have been late today.

  “Maybe she’s sick, or her car broke down, or she overslept, or she had a family emergency,” I said. “Maybe she had a flat tire.”

  Mom dismissed my words with a wave of her slender hand. “She would have called.”

  Okay, that was true, too. Still, there had to be an explanation—other than that she was dead.

  “Have you called her house?” I asked.

  Mom gazed across the room for a long moment, then turned to me. “Why would I possibly have her phone number?”

  “Do you have her home address?” I asked.

  “Really, Haley, I insist you take this situation seriously,” she said.

  “You could call your accountant,” I said.

  “Who?” Mom looked totally lost now.

  Jeez, I really hope the day doesn’t come that my life depends on Mom.
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br />   “He makes out Juanita’s paycheck every week,” I said. “He has her contact information.”

  Mom pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her caftan and touched it to the corner of her eye. “I have to know what happened to her, Haley,” she said. “I absolutely have to know.”

  Now, I felt kind of crappy for thinking bad things about Mom. After all, Juanita had been with us for years. She was part of the family.

  Mom drew a breath. “I have a dinner party scheduled for later in the week and I certainly can’t get a decent caterer at this late date.”

  Oh, please, let me have been switched at birth.

  “I’m going to report Juanita’s death to the police,” Mom told me.

  I glanced at my watch. “She’s only an hour late. I think it’s a little too soon to call the police.”

  “It’s never too early to notify the authorities,” Mom insisted. “That’s what they’re for—much like household staff.”

  For a moment I considered giving her Detective Madison’s phone number just so Mom could ruin his day, but thought better of it.

  “I’ll take care of it,” I said. “I’ll make some calls and try to locate Juanita. If nothing turns up, I’ll call the police.”

  “Excellent,” Mom said. “Meanwhile, I’ll try and find a good caterer.”

  I left the house and got in my car, not all that worried about Juanita. Anything could have happened to delay her arrival this morning, like maybe she’d skimmed enough of Mom’s jewelry and silver over the years to retire—which she totally deserved—so I saw no need to investigate her supposed death yet.

  I pulled out of Mom’s driveway just ahead of a yellow VW Beetle and headed to work.

  “Miss Randolph?”

  Camille, the receptionist at Dempsey Rowland, called my name as I stepped off the elevator. I ignored her. She scared the crap out of me, frankly. I figured her for mid-sixties, tall and rail thin. She must have had some work done because the skin around her eyes was drawn back so tight I don’t think her eyelids closed anymore. Her gray hair looked like she’d styled it with a leaf blower.

  “Miss Randolph!” she called again.

  I stopped and turned back, pretending I’d just heard her.

  Camille waved a small pink piece of paper at me. “You have a message.”

  I walked over and took it. It was from one of those “While You Were Out” message pads.

  “Adela would like you to report to H.R. immediately,” Camille said.

  Just why she couldn’t have told me what the message was before I walked over here, I didn’t know.

  Nor did I know why she was giving me the message on a slip of paper.

  “Don’t you e-mail the messages to the employees when you get them?” I asked.

  “I think a personal touch is much better,” Camille said. She made what probably would have been a frown, if her face had been able to move, then said, “I don’t really like all that e-mail business. Too complicated.”

  I remembered that when I’d first gone into Adela’s office for my interview, she’d had a paper file for me, rather than one on the computer.

  “I guess Dempsey Rowland employees aren’t much for technology,” I said.

  I’m pretty sure that came out sounding pleasant instead of a what-the-heck-is-the-matter-with-you-people kind of thing. Well, okay, kind of sure.

  Camille smiled—I think.

  “I just saw Ruth with a laptop,” she said. “That’s progress, I suppose. If you like that sort of thing.”

  I didn’t know who Ruth was but I sincerely hoped she was using her laptop for something more important than a doorstop.

  “Adela would like you to report to H.R. immediately,” Camille said, waving her finger—which looked like an eagle talon—toward the pink note in my hand.

  Great. Just what I needed this morning. I guess Constance had ratted me out to H.R. when I hadn’t been in her office first thing this morning, despite the message I’d left on her voicemail.

  I found my way to Adela’s office after making only two wrong turns among the warren of offices, and saw that the door was open. Adela sat behind her desk studying a personnel file.

  Jeez, I really hope that’s not my file.

  Adela looked up, waved me inside, and said, “Close the door, please.”

  Oh, crap. This couldn’t be good.

  I eased the door shut and sat down in the chair that faced Adela’s desk. I eyed the personnel file. It had my name on it. Yikes!

  Adela studied me for a moment. She looked tired, a little weary—or maybe she was just working up the courage to tell me I was fired.

  Not a great feeling.

  “I realize that yesterday—your first day with us—was difficult,” Adela said. “I’m afraid I have more troubling news for you.”

  Did I pick a bad time to quit eating chocolate or what?

  “As you know, everyone at Dempsey Rowland hired to handle sensitive work—such as you—for one of our government projects must undergo a background check and obtain a security clearance,” Adela said.

  Maybe I should start carrying a Snickers bar in my purse—strictly for emergencies, of course.

  “Those checks can take a long time to complete,” Adela said.

  Maybe a couple of Snickers bars—and some M&Ms.

  “Violet headed up security, as you know,” Adela said, “and now she’s ... gone.”

  Did they sell those things by the case?

  “Until a security clearance can be obtained,” Adela went on, “new hires are placed in nonsensitive positions, which is why you were assigned to work under Constance.”

  How long would it take to eat a whole case? I was pretty sure I could buzz through one pretty quick, under the right circumstances—like now.

  “Constance was our corporate event planner,” Adela said. “You were assigned to assist her.”

  My spirits lifted a little—but I still could eat a case of most anything with chocolate on it—and I said, “I was going to help plan corporate events?”

  “Business luncheons, on- and off-site meetings, retreats, dinners with clients, retirement and promotion ceremonies. The birthday club, of course. It’s an extremely important position.” Adela paused and drew a breath. “But something has happened.”

  Jeez, I hope she isn’t going to tell me Constance is dead, too.

  Adela shifted in her chair. “Constance isn’t taking Violet’s. . . death ... well. She’s not in today. But we’re going to go ahead and use you in corporate events.”

  I was going to have to plan corporate lunches, dinners, meetings, retreats, and ceremonies? I still wasn’t sure what the heck this company even did.

  “Did Constance have an assistant, maybe?” I asked.

  Adela nodded. “Yes, of course. That would be Patty. She’s extremely competent and capable—Constance’s second brain, really.”

  From what I remembered of Constance, she could sure as heck use a second brain.

  I heaved a mental sigh of relief.

  “Unfortunately,” Adela said, “Patty resigned.”

  Oh, crap.

  “With Violet’s murder taking place in Constance’s office—which is right next to Patty’s—well, it was just too much for her,” Adela said.

  Adela looked at me like she expected me to say something sympathetic about what Patty had been through, but I couldn’t think of anything.

  “Normally, we wouldn’t turn such an important position over to someone new, but these aren’t normal circumstances,” Adela went on. “You have a very strong résumé, Haley. Your qualifications are outstanding. So for now, you’ll handle corporate events on your own.”

  I’d been to a lot of big events, but I’d never planned one. I didn’t have the foggiest idea of how to stage a business luncheon, off-site retreat, promotion ceremony, or any of the other things Adela had mentioned. I’d be lost, completely in the dark.

  So what could I say to Adela but, “Sure. Sounds great.”


  CHAPTER 6

  Wow, my own office. I’d never had one before. It was awesome. My own desk, chair, cabinet, visitor chair, all lighted by a big window that overlooked Figueroa Street.

  Jeez, I really hope I get to keep it.

  Adela escorted me to the office that had belonged to Constance’s assistant, Patty. The desk had been emptied of personal items and the janitors had cleaned everything. She mentioned the computer system that Patty used to track upcoming events, then left.

  It creeped me out a little that on the other side of the wall was Constance’s office—the door still crisscrossed with crime scene tape—where Violet had been killed, but I was determined to enjoy the place while I could. Constance would return tomorrow and, well, who knew what would happen after that?

  I settled in and spent the morning texting friends, reading my e-mail, and checking out Facebook. I used my cell phone to take a picture of myself at my desk and sent it to Marcie. Then I surfed the Macy’s, Neiman Marcus, and Nordstrom Web sites and looked at their business suits—and their handbags, of course—because even if I eventually got fired, I still needed to look great while I was here. Next I checked my bank balance online, read my horoscope, and made an appointment for a manicure. I mean, that’s what a private office is for, isn’t it? So you can take care of your private business?

  I glanced at my wristwatch and saw it was after one already. Time for lunch. So far, I was loving this job. I figured I’d ask Marcie to eat with me so we could map out a shopping plan for tonight. My cell phone rang. The caller

  I.D. screen read, PALMDALE REGIONAL MEDICAL CENTER.

  Oh my God. Juanita.

  I answered immediately and a woman’s voice said, “This is the emergency room at the Palmdale Regional hospital.”

  My heart did a huge flip-flop. Juanita was in the emergency room? Something had happened to her? Mom was right about something?