Tote Bags and Toe Tags

by Dorothy Howell

  “I was asked to contact you,” the woman said. “Tyler Cameron has been involved in an automobile accident and—”

  “Ty?” I shot to my feet. “Ty?”

  “He’s not seriously injured and will be released shortly,” she said. “He’d like you to pick him up.”

  “I’m on my way!”

  I grabbed my purse and ran out the door.

  The Palmdale Regional hospital was in the Antelope Valley, an area up the 14 freeway about an hour north of downtown Los Angeles. It’s the High Desert, hot and windy—when it’s not cold and windy—with mountains that get snow in the winter and a valley floor that’s covered with tumbleweeds and Joshua trees. It’s a busy place with lots of family activities, a great location for people who want a place away from the hustle and bustle of a crowded city.

  I’d been up there a few times because of my dad’s job. Aerospace was big in the A.V. The space shuttle was built in Palmdale and recovered at Edwards Air Force Base. The air force had its flight test facility on the base, along with their test pilots’ school and the NASA Dryden Flight Research Center.

  I’d never made the trip up the winding freeway as quickly as I did today, darting in and out of the carpool lane, which wasn’t against the law at this time of day—not that I cared. I took the Palmdale Boulevard exit, and whipped into the closest parking space to the hospital’s emergency room I could find.

  The woman who’d called me had said Ty wasn’t seriously injured but, of course, that didn’t keep me from conjuring up all kinds of horrible pictures in my mind. I raced into the emergency room mentally bracing myself to see Ty encased in a head-to-toe cast, or with one of those halos bolted into his skull, or strapped in a wheelchair drooling into a cup.

  Instead, I found him sitting quietly in a chair, waiting patiently. His pale blue polo shirt had a reddish stain on the front, as did the knee of his jeans.

  “Oh my God, Ty, are you all right?” I asked as I rushed over.

  He looked up at me and managed a brief hint of a smile. “I’m okay,”

  I pointed to his shirt. “Is that—blood?”

  He gestured to his face and I saw a scrape on his nose and left cheek.

  “Air bag,” he said. “They did X-rays and an MRI. Nothing’s broken. I’m just a little sore.”

  I dropped into the chair next to him and took his hand. “Thank God.”

  We sat like that for a minute, then Ty squeezed my fingers. “Get me out of here, will you?”

  “Sure,” I said, getting to my feet.

  Ty rose slowly and handed me a little white bag. “Pain meds,” he said.

  I tucked them into my purse. Ty let me take his arm and we headed for the door. He moved kind of slow.

  When we got to my car, Ty stopped and asked, “Will you call Mom for me?”

  “Of course,” I said, opening the passenger-side door.

  He hesitated a few seconds. “Is it okay if I hang out at your place?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. I glanced around the parking lot. “Is your car here?”

  “Totaled,” he said.

  I figured he must have already taken some of the pain meds if he looked that unconcerned about his gorgeous Porsche being wrecked beyond repair.

  Ty grimaced as he lowered himself into my Honda. I drove slowly out of the parking lot. By the time we hit the freeway, I’d calmed down enough to start wondering how and why the accident had occurred—here, of all places. Holt’s didn’t have a store in the Antelope Valley and had no plans to build one—that I knew of, anyway. Ty usually told me everything about the company. Sometimes—well, okay, most of the time—I drifted off.

  “So what were you doing in Palmdale?” I asked.

  I glanced at Ty. He was asleep.

  “Haley, there’s been a development,” Mom said as soon as I answered my cell phone.

  I swung into the parking garage next to Dempsey Rowland and whipped into a spot near the elevator. I wasn’t feeling all that great about leaving Ty alone at my apartment after his accident, but as soon as I’d helped him undress and get into bed, he was out cold. I figured I should put in an appearance at work this afternoon; I’d be off in a couple of hours, anyway.

  I wouldn’t have answered Mom’s call—thank God for called I.D.—except that I hoped she wanted to tell me Juanita had finally showed up.

  I could use one less thing to worry about right now.

  “Good news, Mom?” I asked, as I got out of my car.

  “Yes,” she said, and sounded relieved. “I’ve found a caterer.”

  I’m pretty sure my real family is out there somewhere looking for me.

  “What about Juanita?” I asked.

  “Who?”

  “Juanita,” I said, and managed not to yell, “Is she there yet?”

  “Of course not,” Mom said. “Why else would I still be looking for a caterer?”

  “I’m driving into a tunnel, Mom,” I said. “I might lose you—”

  I hung up and hurried into the elevator. By the time I’d crossed the building’s main lobby and ridden up to five, I’d rehearsed the my-boyfriend-was-in-a-car-crash excuse for being away from the office well enough that I could say it in one smooth sentence and even work up a tear, if necessary.

  Camille, Dempsey Rowland’s version of the Crypt Keeper, didn’t look my way when I got off the elevator. I went to my office. No yellow notes stuck to my computer monitor, no voicemail from anyone demanding to know why I wasn’t at my desk.

  For once I had a perfectly good excuse for being late back to work—and no one even asked. It was kind of disappointing. At least that meant I could use it at some point in the future.

  I closed my office door and worked the phone. First I called Ty’s mom. Her voicemail picked up, so I left a detailed message about the accident and assured her Ty was fine. I’d leave it to her to notify the rest of the family as she saw fit—no way was I getting involved in that.

  There’s nothing like a family tragedy to cause everyone to turn on each other.

  Next I called Amber, Ty’s personal assistant. I like Amber. She is about my age, short, with dark, sensible hair. Everything about Amber is sensible. I could have been jealous of Amber—she ran everything in Ty’s life—but she made things so easy for him—which ultimately benefited me, of course—I couldn’t complain. Plus, she wasn’t Ty’s type—or, rather, Ty wasn’t her type. Once when Marcie and I were out shopping and ran into Amber, I caught Amber checking out Marcie’s butt.

  Amber answered on the first ring. I gave her the news and immediately she jumped into action.

  “I’ll inform key personnel at Corporate,” she said. “I’ll get the status on his car, notify the insurance company, get the accident report from the CHP, and I’ll bring his clothes by your place tonight.”

  “Thanks, Amber,” I said. “You’re awesome.”

  “How are you holding up?” she asked.

  That was nice to hear. Amber thinks of everything.

  “Relieved he’s not seriously hurt,” I said. “I hope he was telling me the truth. You know how men are about medical things.”

  “I’ll double check with the hospital,” Amber said. “You said it was Palmdale Regional? What was he doing up there?”

  Okay, that was weird.

  “You don’t know?” I asked.

  “At about eleven this morning, Ty asked me to cancel all his afternoon appointments,” Amber said.

  Okay, that was really weird.

  “I’m sure it was something to do with business,” Amber said.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I agreed. Ty seldom did anything that didn’t involve Holt’s in some way, shape, or form.

  “See you tonight,” Amber said, and hung up.

  Through the glass panel in my office door, I saw people walking through the hallway and realized it was time to go home. Thank goodness. I’d had one heck of a day.

  As I reached into my bottom desk drawer to retrieve my purse, my office
door opened and Adela walked in. She didn’t look happy.

  “I didn’t receive an e-mail announcement about tomorrow’s event,” Adela said.

  There was an event tomorrow?

  “You’ve made the arrangements, haven’t you?” she asked, though it sounded like more of an accusation, like she thought I hadn’t done it, or something—which I hadn’t, of course, but still.

  Adela narrowed her gaze at me. “I assured Mr. Dempsey you could handle this position, Haley. Your résumé was very strong.”

  Jeez, what did I put on that thing? Maybe I should have reviewed it before I sent it in.

  “Was I wrong?” she asked, her eyes getting narrower.

  My future at Dempsey Rowland flashed in front of me—and not in a good way. Did I now have a double chance of getting fired? Once for not passing my security clearance, and again for bungling tomorrow’s event—whatever it was?

  “Of course not,” I said, giving her the same you-can-trust-me smile I gave Holt’s customers when I sent them to the other side of the store for an item we don’t even carry.

  Adela didn’t look relieved—obviously, she wasn’t a Holt’s shopper.

  “The birthday club is extremely important,” she said. “It’s good for morale and, believe me, this office needs a morale boost after what we’ve been through. Kinsey Miller is relatively new with us, but I want her to feel as if her birthday is just as important as anyone else’s.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” I said, channeling my mother’s I’m-better-than-you voice. “Here’s the situation, Adela. All the office decorations, birthday and otherwise, are locked up in the cabinets in Constance’s office, which is still sealed by LAPD’s crime scene tape.”

  Okay, that was a guess on my part. I’d seen the big cabinets in Constance’s office and I hadn’t found decorations here in the office I’d taken over from Patty, so I made a logical assumption—more like a wild guess.

  Sometimes my wild guesses work out.

  “I couldn’t possibly schedule Kinsey’s birthday celebration tomorrow without decorations,” I said. “It’s unacceptable. I simply won’t do it.”

  Adela’s expression shifted into back-down mode. “I’ll be right back.”

  She left my office. I logged onto the computer—luckily, Patty hadn’t set a password—and clicked on the calendar. Yikes! There were all kind of events scheduled.

  Jeez, if Patty did all of this, what the heck was Constance working on?

  From what I could see, Patty had made detailed notes of each event. I clicked another file and saw the names and contact info for dozens of vendors.

  Adela walked into my office and stood in front of my desk. She looked a little rigid and tense.

  “I should have given this to you earlier,” she said, in what I guessed would be the closest thing to an apology I’d ever get from upper management. She held out an envelope. “Things have been so ... difficult.”

  I rose from my seat and took the envelope. I ripped it open and found a credit card and slip of paper with a PIN. The words DEMPSEY ROWLAND were embossed on the card and in the corner was the company logo.

  “It’s a corporate credit card,” Adela explained. “A card with your name on it will be ready soon.”

  Light beamed down from above—I swear—reflecting off the card.

  “You’re to use it to purchase everything necessary for corporate events,” Adela said.

  Angels—really—began to sing.

  “It goes without saying,” Adela said, “that Dempsey Rowland events are all top rate, first-class. We have global reach. We have international clients, strong political ties, and high government connections. We have superior standards and a reputation for excellence to uphold.”

  I started to get light-headed.

  “Use the card at your discretion, Haley,” Adela said. “And remember, only the best will do for Dempsey Rowland.”

  Adela left my office. I collapsed into my chair.

  Oh my God. Oh my God.

  I love my job.

  CHAPTER 7

  I was tempted to use the my-boyfriend-was-in-a-car-crash excuse—which I intended to upgrade to a-horrendous-car-crash—but since I was just calling Holt’s to cancel my evening shift, I didn’t mention it. Besides, Jeanette, the store manager, already kind of knew I was involved with Ty, though she’d never mentioned it, and by now she would already know about his car accident.

  As I hung up with Holt’s, I whipped into a strip mall near my apartment and picked up Chinese take-out. It was one of Ty’s favorites, but I felt kind of crappy not preparing him a home-cooked meal after his accident—not that I’d ever done that, but still.

  Shuman’s girlfriend, Amanda, popped into my mind as I parked outside my apartment. Maybe I should redo my entire kitchen and make German food for Ty like she was doing for Shuman. Maybe Ty and I could have a dinner party and invite our friends. Then everyone could see Ty look at me the way Shuman looked at Amanda—which Ty did. I’m certain of it. Really.

  My apartment was silent when I went inside. I kicked off my shoes, set the take-out on the kitchen counter, and tiptoed to my bedroom at the end of the hall. The blinds were drawn and the lights were off. Ty was still sleeping, still lying in the same position he’d been in when I left him there hours ago.

  I changed into sweats and grabbed the jeans and polo shirt Ty had worn today. The bloodstains were pretty bad but I had mad skills when it came to washing clothes.

  My laundry room—which consisted of a washer, dryer, and some shelves—was situated in the hallway of my apartment, next to a coat closet and my second bedroom. I opened the bifold doors and went to work, soaking the stains with three different stain removers, concentrated detergent, dry bleach, then liquid bleach, all of which was probably against some EPA regulation, but, oh well.

  I turned on the washer as I searched the pockets of Ty’s jeans. I found his phone, wallet, and a couple of dollar bills and some coins wadded together with a receipt. I unfolded it and saw that it was for a soda purchased from a Chevron station in Acton, a community about fifteen minutes south of Palmdale. Ty must have stopped there for a cold drink before his accident.

  My doorbell rang as I shoved his clothes into the washer. I closed the bifold doors, dropped Ty’s phone, wallet, and money on the kitchen counter, then took a look through the peephole in my front door. Amber waited outside, holding a garment bag and a small duffle.

  “How is he?” she asked, when I let her in.

  “Sleeping,” I said.

  “Still?” she asked, looking troubled. “He doesn’t have a head injury, does he? Did the doctors tell you to watch for signs of a concussion?”

  Was Ty lying in my bedroom, dead? At this very moment? And I hadn’t noticed? Jeez, what kind of girlfriend was I?

  Good thing I didn’t go into the medical field.

  “I was just about to check on him again,” I said to Amber, which was a total lie, of course, but one I figured needed to be told.

  “Where should I put these?” she asked, hefting the garment bag and duffle a little higher.

  I pointed behind me as I hurried down the hallway. “In there. It’s really packed. Just shove them in as best you can.”

  Ty—thank goodness—was breathing steadily, so I closed the door and went back to the kitchen. Amber was plugging Ty’s phone into a wall charger she must have brought with her.

  “I hope his phone wasn’t damaged in the crash,” Amber said. “His entire life is in this thing.”

  “Want some Chinese?” I asked.

  She eyed the take-out cartons for a second, then shook her head. “Can’t. Too much to do.”

  I followed her to my front door.

  “I’ll let Corporate know Ty won’t be in tomorrow morning,” Amber said. “There’s some mix-up with his auto insurance company about the Porsche. I’ll get it straightened out. Other than that, everything is handled. I’ll have all the details for Ty as soon as he needs them.”


  “You rock,” I said.

  Amber gave me a grateful smile and left.

  First-date sex was good—not that I’ve ever done that myself, of course—third-date sex was great—no comment—and so was make-up sex, but so far I liked car-crash sex the best.

  Ty woke up early the next morning well rested from his twelve-plus hours of pain medication–induced sleep, which benefited me in the best way possible—twice. I told him Amber had brought his clothes over last night, but he said he wasn’t going into the office today. Then he fell back to sleep while I showered, dressed, and left for work.

  My afterglow was humming along nicely as traffic crawled south on the 405, so when my phone rang and I saw Mom’s name on the caller I.D. screen, I didn’t even cringe.

  “Something terrible has happened,” Mom said when I answered.

  My afterglow shattered. Oh my God—Juanita. I’d forgotten all about her.

  “What is it?” I asked, visions of having to dive across three lanes of traffic and head to the morgue to identify her body bouncing around in my head.

  “The caterer I want is already booked elsewhere,” Mom said.

  The caterer? What the heck was she talking about?

  She huffed irritably. “I explained to them in detail how important this dinner party was, but they absolutely refused to work with me.”

  “What about Juanita?” I asked.

  “What about her?”

  “Did she come to work today?” I asked, and managed not to scream into the phone. “Did she call? Have you heard from her at all?”

  “You were supposed to handle that, Haley,” Mom said. “Frankly, I’m a little disappointed in you.”

  Great.

  “I’m working on it, Mom. I’ll let you know something soon,” I said, and hung up.

  With one eye on the freeway traffic, I scrolled through my address book—which was against the law, I know, but this was an emergency—and punched in the phone number of Mom’s accountant.

  The old geezer who handled Mom’s trust fund was nearly ninety and acted as if the money were his. He also seemed to think there was some sort of accountant–client confidentiality, like lawyers and priests, and always gave me a hard time if I called for something Mom needed.