I really wished she could come up with some simple solution to this whole puzzle. The pieces had been swirling around in my head since I picked Ty up from the emergency room, but nothing had fallen into place—nothing that I liked, anyway.
“Do you think he was sneaking off to meet somebody?” Marcie asked. “Another woman, maybe?”
Only a true BFF would have guts enough to broach the subject, and as much as I didn’t want to consider the possibility, I knew I had to.
I let the thought sit on my brain for about three seconds, then rejected it like a house-brand purse on a clearance rack.
Ty hadn’t been the best boyfriend and we’d had our problems. But no way would he cheat on me. He just wasn’t that kind of man.
“He wouldn’t do that,” I said.
“Not his style,” Marcie agreed. “So did you ask him about the whole thing?”
I’m not big on suspense, so flat-out asking about something wasn’t a problem for me. But between my new job, Violet’s murder, Juanita’s disappearance, and all the car-crash sex, I just hadn’t had time.
“You have to ask him,” Marcie told me.
“I know. And I will,” I said.
Marcie gave me best-friend stink-eye.
“I will,” I swore.
We turned our attention back to shopping. I bought eight suits—four black, two gray, one brown, and a navy blue—then matched up accessories. I couldn’t possibly leave the store without shoes, of course, so I found three pair of sassy-but-kind-of-sensible pumps that were actually comfortable. We saved the best—the handbag department, of course—for last.
“You absolutely have to have a good tote for working downtown,” Marcie declared. “Oh my God, the Temptress would look perfect with all of those suits.”
“Sorry, we’re out of stock,” our sales clerk, who was still trailing us, said. “I’ll put you on the waiting list.”
Just because I couldn’t get the it bag of the season today, I saw no reason not to buy something. I picked out a Michael Kors and a Chanel, and Marcie got a fabulous Betsey Johnson. My graduation gift cards covered everything—well, okay, I did have to break out a credit card or two—and we called it mission accomplished. I’d look great at the office now.
I just hoped I got to keep my job.
My cell phone rang just as I swung into a parking space at my apartment complex. Jack Bishop’s name appeared on my caller I.D. screen and my heart did a quick double-beat—which was bad of me, I know, especially with my official boyfriend upstairs waiting for me.
But, jeez, Jack was a smoking-hot guy. I wouldn’t be a red-blooded American female if I didn’t have that kind of response to him. Not only was he absolutely gorgeous, with a great body, thick brown hair, and fabulous blue eyes, but he also had a supercool job.
Jack was a private detective. We met last fall at the Pike Warner law firm. While I toiled away in accounts payable, Jack conducted investigations—discreet and otherwise—on cases involving the firm’s wealthy, well-connected, sometimes pompous, and pampered clientele.
Jack also handled cases on the side and—lucky me—I’d helped him out with some of them. We’d always shared some kind of attraction, but neither of us had moved on it. I had an official boyfriend—I was a stickler for that sort of thing—and Ty’s family was a lifelong client of Pike Warner.
“What are you wearing?” Jack asked, when I answered my phone.
“Leopard-print boots and a clown wig,” I said.
“I’ll be right over.”
He said it in his Barry White voice. My belly felt all gooey inside.
“I only want to use you for my personal gain,” I said.
“I wouldn’t want it any other way,” Jack said. Then he switched into private detective mode. “So what’s up?”
“I need you to look up a license plate for me,” I said.
“What’s the story?” he asked.
Jack and I had been friends for a while and we’d helped each other out a number of times, but that didn’t mean he’d jump blindly into something just because I asked, which was kind of annoying, but there it was.
“I think I’m being followed,” I said. “I keep seeing a bright yellow VW Beetle everywhere I go.”
“A yellow Bug, huh? I hear that’s what all the international terrorist groups are driving now. Did you notify Homeland Security?” Jack asked.
“I thought you’d like first crack at breaking the case,” I said. “Look, it may not be anything, but there’s this other thing going on and it may be connected.”
“Are you talking about Mike Ivan?”
Hearing Mike Ivan’s name gave me a little jolt—and not in a good way. First, because the man just had that effect on me and, second, because he was Jack’s first thought when I said the word “connected.”
“Don’t call Mike Ivan.” Jack’s tone changed to don’t-screw-with-me-on-this serious.
“I need his help,” I said.
“Don’t call Mike Ivan.”
“He told me I could, after that whole thing in Vegas a few weeks ago,” I said. “And I need to find out—”
“Don’t call Mike Ivan.”
It was the closest Jack had ever come to yelling at me, which didn’t suit me, but I understood his concern.
“Okay, look,” I said. “I’ve got this friend Juanita—she’s a friend of the family, really. She’s missing and there’s a possibility she was kidnapped by Romanians or Russians, or something. I figured if anybody can help me learn the real story, it’s Mike.”
“Call the police,” Jack said.
“I don’t want to involve them yet,” I said. “The whole thing may be nothing.”
Jeez, I really hope the whole thing is nothing.
“How does the yellow VW fit in?” Jack asked.
He was in big-time private investigator mode now. I imaged him sitting somewhere, taking notes and making plans. It was way hot.
“The VW is a whole other thing,” I said. “Maybe.”
“How many things are you involved in?” Jack asked.
He was starting to sound a little testy now—which was still way hot, of course—but I didn’t want to get into everything with him.
“Just run the VW plate,” I said, and gave him the number I’d memorized when I saw it barrel out of the back parking lot at Holt’s.
“Don’t make a move on Mike Ivan until I get back to you,” Jack said, and hung up.
I stared down at my phone for a minute, a little ticked off. Jeez, what was the big deal? Yeah, Mike Ivan probably had some connection to the Russian mob and staying away from him was a good idea. But I knew all that. I didn’t need Jack ordering me around over it—no matter how hot he looked.
So what could I do but turn into the hardheaded, determined person I’m often accused of being?
I scrolled through my phone book and punched in Mike Ivan’s number. It rang once and a shock wave of what-the-heck-am-I-doing shot through me. I hung up.
Okay, so maybe Jack was right. Involving Mike Ivan might not be the best thing to do—right now. I still had other avenues to check out.
I sat in my car and Googled all the hospitals and morgues in the Los Angeles area, then called each one and asked about Juanita. Most of the people I talked to weren’t all that pleasant, and it took forever. But no way was I going up to my apartment—with Ty there—and make these calls.
When I got through the list, annoying as it was, I was relieved to learn that Juanita wasn’t dead or hospitalized. I sat there for another few minutes, thinking. Mom’s accountant’s secretary, who’d given me Juanita’s address and contact info, hadn’t had any phone numbers for family members, so I couldn’t think of anyone else to call—except Juanita herself. I called her home and cell numbers and left messages again. Hopefully, even if Juanita was unable to return my calls, some family member might.
I got out of my car, gathered my shopping and garment bags, and trudged up the stairs to my apartment. I was tired and
more than a little annoyed—at just about everything in my life.
In the middle of my mental image of me sinking into my couch with a package of Oreos in one hand and a frozen Snickers bar in the other, Ty popped into my head. My official boyfriend was waiting for me in my apartment ready to devote himself to showing me what a great guy he was, and making up for all the crappy things he’d done in the past. My spirits lifted a little.
I wrestled with my bags trying to get my front door open, and finally made my way inside.
Ty sat on the couch. He had on jeans and a henley shirt, and was barefoot. A beer bottle was on my coffee table—no coaster—and a baseball game played on TV.
He hopped up and smiled—Ty’s got a killer smile—and took all the bags from me.
“I guess the shopping went well. I want to see everything you bought,” he said, and gave me a quick kiss. “But first, I want to show you what I did for you today.”
He dumped all my bags on the couch, took my hand, and led me into the kitchen.
Immediately, I could see that what he’d done for me wasn’t loading the dishwasher, wiping down the countertops, or scrubbing the pots and pans he’d obviously used to make himself breakfast.
Ty stood up straight and gestured around the room, then announced, “I cleaned out your cabinets for you.”
He—what?
“You said you wanted a whole new you, and you wanted to eat better,” Ty said, nodding and smiling. “So I threw away all your bad food.”
He threw away my—what?
“Haley, you wouldn’t believe what I found in your cabinets,” he said, shaking his head. “Some of your spices had expired.”
Spices had an expiration date?
“There was an open package of Oreo cookies,” Ty said. Oh my God, my emergency Oreos.
“It was hidden up on the top shelf,” Ty said. “I knew you didn’t want that stuff anymore.”
Oh my God, he didn’t throw them away?
“So I tossed them out,” Ty said.
Oh my God!
“You—you threw them out?” I might have yelled that.
Ty put his arms around me and drew me closer.
“You bet I did. What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t support you in this new direction your life is taking?” he said. “And don’t worry, Haley, you can count on me to do this kind of thing from now on.”
Great.
CHAPTER 12
Smoking-hot Jack Bishop called me the next morning at the exact moment my smoking-hot boyfriend stepped into the shower. Do I have the coolest life of anyone on planet Earth, or what?
I answered my cell phone as I stood in my kitchen searching for the sugar in the cabinets Ty had so thoughtfully rearranged for me yesterday.
“Any luck with my DMV search?” I asked, opening yet another cabinet door.
“I don’t need luck,” Jack told me in his I’m-way-hot voice.
I love that voice.
“So what’s the story?” I asked.
“Meet me,” Jack said. “Your favorite place in an hour.”
Oh my God. Private detective lingo was so cool.
“I’m buying,” I told him.
“Damn right you are,” Jack said, and hung up.
I turned and ran smack into Ty standing in my kitchen wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt. His hair was damp, and that freshly shaved smell wafted from him.
“I made coffee,” he said.
“Yeah, I saw,” I said. “I can’t find the sugar. Where’d you put it?”
“I threw it out.”
“You—you what?”
“Sugar’s really bad for you, Haley,” he said. “And it’s certainly not part of your better-eating commitment.”
Ty moved around me and opened the drawer beneath the coffeemaker—the one that used to have take-out menus in it.
“I bought you these,” Ty said, proudly pointing to a stunning array of tiny pink, blue, and yellow packets stacked neatly in the drawer. “Sugar substitutes.”
“You bought sugar ... sub—sub—”
I couldn’t even say the words “substitute” and “sugar” in the same sentence.
“Wait until you taste this coffee,” Ty said. He pulled two mugs from the cabinet, filled them from the pot he’d put on earlier, and presented one of them to me. “Try it black. It’s great.”
I took a sip. Yikes! It tasted like liquefied chewing gum scraped off the sidewalk outside a Middle Eastern sushi restaurant, or something.
“I bought it for you,” Ty said, sipping his. “It’s a special blend of zinc, magnesium, and folic acid, and has lots of great health benefits.”
“Wow, that’s really something,” I said, setting the cup aside. “Listen, I have to go out for a while.”
Ty sipped more of the coffee. “No problem. I have some things to take care of this morning.”
I was tempted to ask him what kind of things he was taking care of, but then I’d be obligated to tell him what I was doing, and I didn’t think mentioning that I was getting info on a car that I suspected had been following me was the right move to make.
And I wasn’t using that as an excuse not to tell him I was meeting Jack Bishop. Really.
“We’ll have dinner together,” Ty said. “I heard about a new place I know you’ll love.”
“Sounds great,” I said.
I dashed into the bedroom, threw on a sundress and sandals, freshened my makeup, twisted my hair into an oh-so-casual updo—none of which had anything to do with my meeting Jack Bishop—grabbed a totally awesome Fendi bag, and left.
My favorite place, which Jack had so cryptically mentioned on the phone, was the Starbucks about a half-mile from my apartment. It was a great Southern California morning and sitting on their patio sipping a mocha frappuccino would be awesome—not to mention having hot, hot, hot Jack beside me, making everyone who saw me totally jealous.
Yeah, okay, I knew a mocha frappuccino was a total no-no in my whole-new-me plan, but, jeez, I couldn’t sit at Starbucks and drink water. It went against everything Starbucks—and I—believe in.
Since Jack wouldn’t be there for a while, I had some time to kill. My first thought was to go to the mall, of course. But the stores weren’t open this early—which was just plain crazy, if you ask me. I mean, really, was that any way to do business? Why couldn’t they stay open 24/7? Where was their concern over a customer with a fashion crisis?
Anyway, I decided this was a good time to check out another suspect in Violet’s murder. I pulled out of my apartment complex and hung a right on Via Princessa as I accessed the info on my cell phone.
Tina Sheldon lived in Canyon Country, an area just a few miles from my apartment. I figured I could run by her place, perhaps find evidence of Violet’s murder lying on her lawn, or something, and still have plenty of time to meet Jack.
I punched her address into my GPS and took Whites Canyon Road past Soledad Canyon Road—everything out here was some sort of a canyon—to Stillmore Avenue.
It was an older, settled neighborhood with most of the houses in okay condition. Some peeling paint here, an overgrown planter there, but generally a nice place to live. It was early on a Sunday morning so not a lot of people were outside, and there was little traffic on the street.
I cruised down the block until I found Tina’s place. Her house looked a little better than those around it. Somebody had put in a lot of time on the shrubbery and intricately planted flower beds. A gnome garden and a birdbath sat in her front yard.
No evidence of Violet’s murderer in sight.
Darn. I hate when that happens.
I rode past her place, hung a U at the corner, and pulled in at the curb about four houses down, angled so that I had a good view of Tina’s front yard and driveway. I scrunched down in the seat a little—I’m pretty sure that’s mandatory in the private detectives’ handbook—and waited for something incriminating to present itself.
Nothing presented itself—incriminating or
otherwise.
A couple of cars drove past me, a guy fired up his motorcycle across the street and took off, and that was about it. I figured I could devote forty-five minutes or so to my stakeout, then I’d have to leave to meet Jack. About ten minutes in, I was done.
I just don’t have the patience for this sort of private detective work.
Maybe I could go to the mall instead.
My spirits lifted. Yeah, that was way better. I could run by Macy’s, even though they weren’t open yet. Their handbag department was near the entrance. Maybe I could spot a Temptress in a display case.
No wait, even better—maybe employees would be in the store getting ready to open, and they’d see me and let me in early. Wow, I can picture it now. The whole store to myself. A new, huge shipment of Temptress bags just arrived. Me touching the buttery leather, gazing at the silk lining, trying on bag after bag, having my pick of them all until I—
The garage door at Tina’s house rolled up. A white panel van backed out into the street and I spotted Tina behind the wheel—completely shattering my fabulous Temptress fantasy.
I hate it when that happens.
The van headed straight toward me. Yikes!
I slumped farther down in my seat and was considering diving into the floor—a hot private detective move, I’m sure—as the van rolled closer to me. Oh, yeah, it was definitely Tina behind the wheel. My heart rate picked up, as I bordered on total-panic mode.
Oh my God, she’d recognize me for sure. My covert op would be blown to bits. And what would I tell her when she hit the brakes, rolled down her window, and gave me a what-the-heck-are-you-doing-here look? How would I explain why I was here?
I’ve got to get better about thinking things through.
But Tina didn’t notice me. She was gazing down at something, like she was adjusting the radio or maybe fooling with a GPS, and didn’t even look my way as she passed my car. Whew!
I watched in my side mirror and saw her turn left at the intersection, and my wanna-be private detective gene kicked in. Oh my God, I could follow her. I swung away from the curb in hot pursuit.
My undercover operation was suddenly cool again—not as cool as having alone time with an entire shipment of Temptress bags at Macy’s, of course—but still pretty darn cool.
Tote Bags and Toe Tags Page 11
