Tote Bags and Toe Tags

by Dorothy Howell

  Luckily, his secretary answered my call. She blamed my mom for causing the old guy’s last two heart attacks—which was probably true—so she gave me Juanita’s home address and phone numbers without question. I wanted her to text them to me, but since she was in her eighties and had tried to sign her name with a fork the last time I was in there, I copied the info down on a Pizza Hut receipt while steering with my knee.

  When I stepped off the elevator into the reception area of Dempsey Rowland, I was pleased to see that at least something—besides the great car-crash sex—was going well for me this morning. Two dozen balloons, a cake, and a bag of birthday decorations sat on Camille’s desk.

  I’d called the bakery mentioned in Patty’s notes before leaving work yesterday and ordered the cake for today’s birthday girl. Then I’d figured that, hey, what was a birthday celebration without balloons to go along with the decorations? I’d Googled party supply stores and found one on Wilshire Boulevard. Just like the bakery, they’d happily agreed to deliver everything—thanks in no small part to the exorbitant up-charge I’d agreed to and charged to my Dempsey Rowland corporate credit card.

  The halls were almost empty—I was super-early today—as I made my way to my office juggling the giant bouquet of balloons, cake, party supplies, and my purse, a totally fabulous Prada satchel. I passed a few people, most of whom looked at me kind of funny, and saw Mr. Dempsey talking with somebody I didn’t recognize.

  Jeez, that guy always came in early. If I owned the place, no way would I be the first one through the door every morning.

  As I struggled to open my office door, I caught sight of two other men who were also there way early. Detectives Shuman and Madison, headed straight for me.

  I doubted they’d come to tell me they’d solved Violet’s murder.

  My stomach did its good-grief-what-now twist, which was only marginally better than its good-grief-am-I-about-to-be-arrested-now twist.

  “Stay away from there!” Detective Madison shouted. “That’s a sealed crime scene!”

  I guess with me partially hidden behind the bouquet of two dozen balloons, he couldn’t see that I was trying to get into Patty’s office next door to Constance’s. Still, it didn’t stop two employees who were walking by from turning to stare at me.

  Not a great feeling.

  I ignored Madison, went into my office, and dropped everything on my desk. The two detectives were on me before the balloons stopped bobbing.

  Shuman looked pretty good for so early in the day. Neat, pressed, clean, crisp, wearing a navy blue sport coat and a nice stripped tie. I wondered if Amanda had dressed him this morning. I wondered if they’d had anything close to car-crash sex this morning—which was really bad of me, I know, but there it was.

  “Oh, so you have your own office now,” Madison said, and made it sound as if it were some sort of crime. “That didn’t take long—especially since the background investigation for your security clearance is suspended indefinitely.”

  It took a second for me to realize why he’d said that, then it occurred to me that Dempsey Rowland was probably having trouble filling the head of security position—since the last person who had it was murdered.

  “Maybe if you could manage to find Violet’s killer, the background investigation could proceed,” I told him.

  Madison’s sneer turned into a nasty frown. He gave me what I thought was homicide detective–stink-eye, and left my office. Shuman stayed.

  “How was the German food?” I asked.

  “Great,” he said, and grinned, making me think there was such a thing as German-food sex, and it must be pretty darn good.

  Shuman nodded toward the hallway. “Your own office, huh?”

  I stepped outside and saw a little plaque with my name on it next to the door. Wow, I hadn’t noticed it when I came in. I figured this must be good news. Surely Dempsey Rowland wouldn’t fire me if they’d gone to the trouble to make me a nameplate.

  Yeah, okay, that was a stretch, but I really, really wanted to keep this job.

  I glanced next door and saw that Constance’s name plaque was missing. Huh, that was weird. Then I figured Adela had probably taken it down to discourage looky-loos from breaking in, or maybe out of respect for Violet.

  The crime scene tape was pulled away and the door to Constance’s office was open, so I figured Detective Madison was inside.

  “Something new going on?” I asked.

  Shuman didn’t answer my question, but said, “Did you know any of the three people who were hired with you?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Let me guess. Madison thinks it’s some kind of conspiracy. I got a bunch of my friends hired at the same time as cover so I could murder Violet. Right?”

  Shuman gave me cop face. “Is that a ‘yes’?”

  “You know it isn’t,” I told him. Then I realized he wasn’t asking me a question. He was trying to tell me something.

  “You think one of the other new hires was involved?” I asked.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Okay, this was kind of cool, Shuman and me talking cop-code in a murder investigation.

  I wonder if he talks to Amanda that way.

  “I spoke with one of them the morning of Violet’s murder,” I said. “Max Corwin.”

  Shuman’s cop face held, but I saw a little light sparkle in his eyes—that’s how well I know him—and realized I was on to something.

  I wonder if Amanda knew what that little sparkle meant.

  “Max seemed like he was worried,” I said, remembering the conversation I’d had with him in the breakroom that morning. “He talked about how the background investigations would be on hold for a while, but it wouldn’t affect us because we were already hired.”

  Shuman nodded slowly

  “I got the impression Max worried a lot,” I said.

  “He should,” Shuman said softly.

  Madison came out of Constance’s office, pulling the door shut behind him. He locked it—I figured he’d gotten the key from somebody in security or maybe H.R.—and stuck the crime scene tape back in place.

  A jolt of something hit me—sort of like when you see the latest Betsey Johnson bag in a shop window and you hit the brakes and desperately look for a parking place so you don’t miss a great opportunity.

  “Can I check something in Constance’s office?” I asked Shuman.

  On the off chance that Adela might want to verify my story—like I’d made it up or something, which I had, of course, but still—that the birthday decorations were actually in the cabinets in Constance’s office, I wanted to check and find out for sure. I’d meant for only Shuman to hear me, but I guess Madison had dog ears, or something.

  “You want to get inside?” he asked, loud enough for the employees in the nearby offices to hear. “Why’s that, Miss Randolph? So you can manipulate the crime scene? Hide evidence? Is that why you want to get inside the office where a murder took place?”

  Two men walking by looked at me funny.

  Not a great feeling.

  So what could I do but channel Mom’s I’m-better-than-you attitude and say, “The reason I need access to that office, Detective Madison, is classified information that you’re not authorized to know.”

  Before he had a chance to call me on it, I put my nose in the air—channeling Mom big time—went back into my office, and closed the door.

  Luckily, Madison and Shuman left. Whew!

  I sat back in my chair suddenly desperate for a mocha frappuccino. This whole-new-me thing was really working on my nerves. How was I supposed to function without an occasional chocolate and caffeine boost?

  Something—really—called my name. It drew me out of my chair and to my office window. I looked down at Figueroa Street. Lots of traffic, lots of people, but my gaze homed in on one thing—Starbucks.

  For a minute I thought I was going to lick the glass. Obviously my whole-new-me plan needed a slight modification. How could I be expected to execute the high
standards of Dempsey Rowland’s demanding event planning department without the necessary nutrition?

  Starbucks was very nutritious. I read that somewhere. I think. Well, I’m pretty sure.

  I went back to my desk, got the Dempsey Rowland corporate card, called the Starbucks, and ordered a venti mocha frappuccino with extra whipped cream and chocolate, which they promised to deliver.

  Yeah, okay, Adela hadn’t said I could order myself a frappie, but she didn’t say I couldn’t either. Besides, I was only doing this to ensure that Kinsey Miller—whoever she was—had a spirited, fun, exciting birthday celebration this morning. I’m sure—kind of sure—Adela would approve of my total commitment to the success of the birthday club.

  That’s how I roll.

  A few minutes later, Camille called. I hoofed it to the reception desk and—thank goodness—found my mocha frappuccino waiting for me. By the time I got back to my office, I’d finished off a third of it and, already, my brain cells were clicking like snap closures on Gucci handbags.

  Shuman barreled into my thoughts—but only in the line of duty, of course—and I recalled his not so subtle hints that something was up with Max Corwin. Shuman wouldn’t out-and-out ask for my help, but he wouldn’t have mentioned Max if he didn’t want my input.

  Like I’d said to Shuman, Max seemed like a worrier. A man his age—I put him at mid-forties—probably had a lot on his mind. Health problems; keeping his wife happy; kids in college; a mortgage to pay. All of which required money. Plus, he’d somehow lost his last job before taking this new one with Dempsey Rowland, which could have caused him more money problems. A break in income or a loss of benefits, maybe. He could have been forced to take a lower starting salary.

  Maybe he figured killing Violet would delay the background investigation—if he had something to hide, of course—so he’d continue to draw a paycheck until someone new was hired to fill her position.

  But if he had something to hide and knew he might not pass the background check, why would he have taken the job in the first place? Unless, like me, he hadn’t known a security clearance was required.

  I slurped the last of my frappie. There was nothing for me to do but find out what was going on with Max Corwin, and find out why Shuman was interested in him.

  And I knew just how to do it.

  I grabbed the cake, decorations, and bouquet of balloons and left my office.

  CHAPTER 8

  Wow, had this section of the office been here all along? After wandering the halls, weighted down by the balloon bouquet, cake, and decorations, I’d finally found the department Kinsey Miller—today’s birthday girl—worked in. Patty had left good notes, but for a few minutes there, I thought I’d have to access Mapquest to find this place.

  The SUPPORT UNIT, as the tiny sign over the main door indicated, was a giant cube farm. Around the perimeter of the room were glass-walled offices where, presumably, supervisors sat. A lucid moment from the tour I’d endured during my first day surfaced, and I recalled that this area handled all the administrative—that’s code for crappy—work here at Dempsey Rowland.

  Luckily, the cubes were all numbered, so I followed the signs and located Kinsey’s workstation. Even though I was super early, a number of other workers were already there. They were all girls around my age.

  I smiled but didn’t get much in return, so I wondered if maybe nobody really liked Kinsey. But, hey, that’s no reason to take it out on me. I was here to decorate her cube and start her day with a big Dempsey Rowland birthday wish.

  Like anyone in upper management gave a rip one way or the other.

  I tied the balloon bouquet to Kinsey’s chair, took the cake from its box and centered it on her desk. I glanced around and saw that a half-dozen girls were standing in their cubes staring at me, and they definitely did not seem to appreciate all the trouble I was going to.

  Jeez, who’d have thought birthday club prep would be so confrontational?

  I decided to take the high road—thanks in part to the lingering effects of my mocha frappuccino—because I figured the Support Unit was a target rich environment for new friends. All the women I’d seen over in my section of the building were older than Grace Kelly’s signature Birkin bag, so this would be the perfect place to find a lunch buddy or two.

  I gave them Mom’s pageant smile and amped it up a bit. “Hi! I’m Haley Randolph. I’m handling corporate events now.”

  “Yeah, we know who you are,” one of the girls said.

  Seemed office gossip spread fast at Dempsey Rowland.

  “You’re the Queen of Morale,” someone else said.

  I was finally queen of something. Mom would be so proud.

  Everybody started eyeing my suit—but not in a good way, and I don’t think it was because it was a leftover from last fall.

  “So what did you do to get this job?” another girl grumbled.

  I kept my smile in place and said, “Patty quit so I was asked—”

  “Not the birthday club,” the girl said. “The other job. The one they hired you for.”

  “Yeah,” somebody else sneered. “The one you got only because that old bastard is on his way out.”

  Okay, something weird was definitely going on here, but that didn’t mean I was willing to become the birthday club punching bag to find out what it was.

  “When Kinsey gets in, tell her happy birthday and I hope she enjoys her cake,” I said, keeping it light. I made quick work of finishing the decorating, then left.

  Yikes! Tough crowd, I thought as I headed back to my office. I was considering ordering a whip and chair on my corporate card for the next time I had to go to the Support Unit, when I heard someone call my name. I turned and saw Max Corwin hurrying toward me.

  “Are you okay?” he asked quietly. He glanced up and down the hallway, then eased a little closer. “I heard the detectives came to see you again this morning.”

  “They came to take another look at Constance’s office,” I said.

  No way was I getting into the exchange I’d had with Detective Madison, though from the look on Max’s face, the whole thing had already zoomed down the office rumor superhighway.

  Max looked even more concerned. “Those detectives, they didn’t talk to me again. Or Ray or Tina.”

  I remembered—barely—that Ray and Tina were the other two new hires who’d come on board with Max and me.

  Max glanced around again, as if he suspected we were being spied on, or something.

  “Watch yourself,” he whispered. “There are lots of undercurrents in this place. I’ve seen it happen before at other companies. Backstabbers are everywhere. Who knows what the other employees are telling those detectives?”

  He darted away as if he suddenly realized he shouldn’t be seen with me.

  As I headed through the maze of hallways trying to find my way back to my own office, I realized that Detectives Madison and Shuman hadn’t questioned Max again because they already had something on him and probably didn’t want to make him suspicious. Then I realized that if they weren’t questioning the other two new hires, maybe that meant they’d uncovered something on them also.

  And I knew I’d figured all of that out due to a late-firing brain cell, which I could only attribute to the mocha frappuccino I’d had earlier.

  Yeah, this whole-new-me thing definitely needed some work.

  Since finding my office again might take a while, I pulled out my cell phone. Juanita’s disappearance had been swirling around in the back of my mind since Mom first mentioned it. Yeah, I’d blown it off, thinking it was a typical Mom thing. Now I wondered if I should have taken her seriously from the start.

  Jeez, I really hope I don’t have to start taking Mom seriously all the time.

  I hit Juanita’s home number, which I’d programmed in while I was in traffic this morning. Her voicemail picked up. I left a message. I tried her cell phone next. Same thing. I left another message.

  I’m not big on suspense so I
considered calling hospitals and morgues. But since I wasn’t ready to make the huge mental jump to my-mom-actually-knows-what-she’s-talking-about, I decided I’d take a run by Juanita’s house first.

  For a minute I thought about calling Ty. When I left this morning, he claimed he intended to stay at my place all day—which I doubted he would do since, even though it’s been in business for a hundred years or something, he thinks Holt’s can’t survive a day without him. But on the off chance that he was still sleeping, I didn’t want the phone to wake him. He’d call me when he got up. Probably. Hopefully. Well, I’d call him later this afternoon.

  The hallways were filling up now as more people showed up to work. Lots of men dressed in great suits—not that I really noticed, since I have an official boyfriend, of course. A few of them smiled, some looked right through me, a couple looked at me weird. One of them gave me big-eyes, then glanced behind him, and quickened his pace.

  I looked down the hallway. Oh my God! Madison and Shuman! I spotted them through the glass wall of one of the small conference rooms talking to Adela and Mr. Dempsey.

  They were still here? Asking questions? About me? Okay, this was too much.

  My future flashed before my eyes: Being called into Adela’s office. Hearing that I was being put on administrative leave. Enduring the long walk of shame to my office. My personal belongings already boxed up and waiting. A security guard escort all the way to the parking garage.

  No way—long story—was I going through that again.

  I whipped around and headed in the other direction. If Shuman thought there was something suspicious in Max Corwin’s background, I intended to find out what it was. And while I was at it, I would check out Ray and Tina, the other two new hires. Then I’d investigate every person Violet Hamilton had ever known in her entire life, if I had to, to prove to Detective Madison that I was innocent.

  I hurried to H.R. and stopped outside Adela’s office. I didn’t know how long she’d be tied up with the detectives, but I didn’t need much time.