Tote Bags and Toe Tags

by Dorothy Howell

  Tina might have been going out for the Sunday newspaper or to pick up doughnuts for the family, but I followed her anyway. I caught up with her as she took Whites Canyon to Via Princessa, then hit the 14 freeway south. I followed as she merged onto the southbound 5 a few minutes later.

  The 5 freeway ran east of Los Angeles, through Orange County, and ended in San Diego, about two hours away. I stayed a few car lengths behind her and changed lanes a couple of times, so as not to look suspicious. Tina drove in the middle lane and kept her speed steady at just two miles over the speed limit—which was kind of annoying—so I figured she must have set her cruise control.

  Not exactly the kind of behavior of someone who had a lot to hide.

  I hung in there for a while, then gave up and headed back to Santa Clarita to meet Jack.

  I swung into the parking lot of the little shopping center that included Starbucks, some fast-food restaurants, doctors’ offices, and mom-and-pop shops, and did a quick check of vehicles already there. No sign of Jack’s black Land Rover or the way cool convertible BMW he’d offered to let me drive back from Las Vegas a few weeks ago—long story.

  I pulled into a space, killed the engine, and flipped down the mirror in my visor. Yeah, okay, I knew it was kind of bad to worry about my appearance before meeting Jack, since I have an official boyfriend, but, well, there it was. I dug a brush from my purse and ran it through my hair, thinking I could use a touch of lipstick, when my passenger-side door opened and a man got in.

  For a second I thought it was Jack.

  It wasn’t.

  My heart nearly flew out of my chest and I almost launched myself through the roof.

  It was Mike Ivan.

  Now I was even more scared.

  Oh my God. What was he doing here? In my car. Outside my favorite Starbucks.

  Had he simply been here? He didn’t really look like a frappuccino-cappuccino-latte kind of guy.

  Was he in one of the other stores and saw me? Had he just wanted to be sociable and walked over to say hi?

  I doubted it.

  “Did I scare you?” Mike asked.

  I guess that in Mike’s maybe-connected-to-the-Russian-mob world, springing unannounced into someone’s car was no big deal. But I was clutching my chest, breathing like I had a front row seat at every Milan Fashion Week show, thinking I was about to be killed and that Marcie darn well better find a Temptress to bury with me.

  “Yeah ... you ... scared ... me.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  I panted for a few more minutes, then forced myself to calm down.

  Mike sat beside me, his gaze scanning the parking lot. To look at him you’d never think mobbed-up. Mike was nice looking, with brown hair and eyes. I figured him for mid-thirties, about my height, with a good build. He wore khaki pants, loafers, a blue short-sleeve shirt, and a necktie.

  He looked like a claims adjuster.

  “You need something,” Mike said. It wasn’t a question.

  I got the feeling he wasn’t referring to the items on the Starbucks menu.

  My mind was spinning, trying to figure out how Mike knew I wanted his help with Juanita’s disappearance and the woman who’d showed up at Mom’s house speaking what I was afraid was Romanian or Russian. I’d mentioned it to Jack Bishop, but he’d been adamant about not approaching Mike. No way had I mentioned it to Detective Shuman, the only other connection to Mike I could think of.

  “How did you know?” I asked.

  “You called me,” Mike said.

  Then I remembered calling him from my cell phone, but hanging up after just one ring. Now I realized he’d seen my name on his caller I.D. screen.

  “I told you,” Mike said. “I don’t forget a favor.”

  When I met Mike for the first time a few weeks ago in Las Vegas, he’d insisted that, though his family was rumored to be in the Russian mob, he was not. He claimed he ran a completely legitimate import-export business. Still, when it all hit the fan in Vegas, I’d made sure Mike Ivan’s interests were protected. He said he wouldn’t forget what I did, and I could see now that he meant it, but, jeez, did he have to give me a heart attack to prove it?

  “How did you find me?” I asked.

  Mike glanced out the window. “I didn’t want to bother you at your apartment.”

  Oh my God. Mike Ivan knew where I lived.

  “Not with your boyfriend up there,” he added.

  Oh, jeez, he knew about Ty, too?

  “So I found you here instead,” Mike said.

  He found me? No way. He must have followed me. Oh, crap.

  “So what do you need?” he asked.

  At this point I figured I was in too deep to hold back. I’m not great at holding back.

  “A friend of mine has disappeared,” I said. “She may have been kidnapped.”

  I gave Mike all the info I had about Juanita’s possible murder/possible kidnapping, and the possible ransom demand Mom had received from the possibly Romanian/ possibly Russian woman who’d come to her house. I didn’t mention Mom, specifically.

  Not even the Russian mob should be subjected to my mom.

  Mike listened, then nodded. “I’ll get back with you.”

  “You can just call me,” I offered.

  He threw me a little grin, then got out of my car and left.

  I collapsed against the seat and closed my eyes.

  Oh my God. What had I done? Was it the right thing? Should I have just told Mike—

  A fist pounded on my window. My eyes flew open and I bolted upright in the seat.

  Jack Bishop stared in at me.

  I flung open the door, forcing him to step back, and jumped out of my car.

  “Don’t ever do that again.” I’m pretty sure I shouted that.

  I flattened my hand against my chest and told him, “You could have given me a heart attack.”

  Jack gave me a smoking-hot grin. “A rapid pulse and pounding heart are all part of the service.”

  Lucky for Jack, he looked so great. Otherwise, I might have ripped his head off and thrown it in his face.

  Today he had on gun metal gray cargo pants, black CAT boots, a snug—and I mean really snug—white T-shirt, and aviator sunglasses. Way hot.

  He nodded toward Starbucks. “Want something?”

  Screw this whole-new-me thing. I pushed past Jack, went inside, and ordered a venti mocha frappie, with extra whipped cream and a double shot of chocolate. By the time Jack ordered a coffee and we settled at an umbrella table on the patio, I’d calmed down. I mean, jeez, what else could happen today?

  “I got the info you wanted,” Jack said.

  Oh, yeah, the DMV report on the yellow VW Beetle that had been following me. I’d been so rattled I’d almost forgotten why I was here.

  Jack pulled a slip of paper from his shirt pocket but didn’t hand it over.

  “You owe me,” he said.

  “Just tell me what you want,” I said.

  “I will,” Jack said. “I’ll tell you—when I want it.”

  He’d told me that before, several times. So far, he hadn’t asked for payment of any sort, but when he did—well, best not to think about what might happen between us, as long as I have an official boyfriend, anyway.

  I plucked the paper from his hand—honestly, I was starting to shake again, but for an entirely different reason.

  I unfolded the paper and read the name of the VW’s registered owner.

  Evelyn Croft.

  Oh, crap.

  CHAPTER 13

  Evelyn and I met last fall when I started working at Holt’s. She was an assistant department manager whose appearance was so demure and conservative she was continually mistaken for a librarian married to a minister who worked as a museum docent. Evelyn was also the sweetest, most gentle person I’ve known in my entire life.

  Which, in a way, was kind of annoying.

  I mean that in the nicest way, of course.

  All sorts of stuff went down at Holt’s
last fall, some of it involving Evelyn. She’d recovered from her physical injuries but couldn’t climb out of the emotional pit she’d fallen into. She wouldn’t even talk about it. She referred to the whole thing as “the incident” caused by “that certain someone.”

  But the really troubling part of the whole thing was that she wouldn’t come out of her house. Hardly ever. Really.

  I’d visited her—it’s like entering Fort Knox to get through her front door—and I’d tried coaxing her out into the real world, but she’d wanted no part of it.

  For a while, I’d thought Evelyn had a boyfriend, a stuffy gray-haired gentleman who was a vice president of the equally stuffy Golden State Bank & Trust. But I’d never actually seen them together or gotten Evelyn to admit to the relationship—I hate it when people don’t dish on the cool stuff—so I couldn’t say for sure what was going on there.

  A few weeks ago, Evelyn had almost gone to a party. I say almost because she’d actually left her house—courtesy of yours truly, of course—and gone shopping for a new outfit. I was pumped, not only because Evelyn had finally made the giant leap to get out socially, but because I got to take her shopping.

  There’s something way cool about spending someone else’s money.

  But in the end, Evelyn had canceled on the party. If she’d been out of her house since our big shopping trip, I wasn’t aware of it.

  That’s why it was weird that her name had come back on the DMV registration of the yellow VW Beetle I’d seen at my apartment, at the Holt’s store, and near my mom’s house.

  Plus, it was weirder than weird that she owned a yellow anything—much less a Beetle. I mean, come on, a woman who’s afraid to leave her own home wasn’t likely to bat around town in a flashy car.

  I parked at the curb in front of Evelyn’s house—a conservative home in a conservative neighborhood—and walked up to the front door. The blinds covering the living room window moved a millimeter so I knew Evelyn had seen me arrive. I’d called ahead, of course, not to make sure it was a convenient time to visit, but because an unexpected knock on her door sent Evelyn into full-on panic mode.

  Even though I’d called ahead and I’d seen the blinds move at the window, I knocked on the front door and rang the bell.

  “It’s me,” I called. “Haley.”

  I stood in front of the peephole and gave her my big there’s-nothing-to-be-afraid-of smile, which I had perfected solely to visit Evelyn.

  Chains rattled, locks turned, and the door opened a couple of inches. Half of Evelyn’s face appeared in the crack. Then she jerked the door open, I rushed inside, and she secured the door again.

  “Well, Haley, it’s good to see you,” Evelyn said, twisting her fingers together.

  I was never sure how old Evelyn was, somewhere between mid-thirties and early forties, I thought. Though she seldom left her home, she always kept her dark hair looking nice, her nails done, and makeup on. I wasn’t so crazy about her style of clothing. Today she had on a long print skirt, a beige blouse with a ruffled collar, and loafers.

  She looked as if she were auditioning for a remake of Little House on the Prairie.

  “Come in,” Evelyn said, gesturing toward her living room. “I’ve made us some refreshments.”

  Oh, crap. I’d forgotten about Evelyn’s refreshments.

  I took my customary spot on the sofa in the living room. The place looked like a florist had exploded in here. Blue and yellow floral prints were everywhere. Evelyn had made slipcovers not long ago, covering the pink and mint green florals with these newer florals.

  She came in from the kitchen carrying a tray with a tea service and a plate of cookies—and believe me, these things were not Oreos. Honestly, I didn’t know what kind of cookies they were, but I suspected the box they came in would taste better.

  “Have you registered for your fall classes?” Evelyn asked, pouring.

  No way was I getting into the whole University of Mixology/University of Michigan thing with her.

  “Not yet,” I said, accepting the tea cup she passed me.

  She held out the plate of cookies. I took three—just so she wouldn’t think I didn’t like them, of course.

  “Hasn’t this weather been something,” Evelyn said, sipping from her own cup. “Those poor farmers in the Midwest are having such a terrible time this year.”

  Evelyn loved the Internet. She had newspaper and magazine subscriptions. She stayed informed about absolutely everything going on, everywhere on the planet.

  Most of the time, I didn’t know what she was talking about.

  I crunched my way through all three cookies and finished my tea while she chatted about—well, I don’t know exactly what she talked about. I drifted off.

  Silence got my attention, and I realized Evelyn was gazing at me expectantly. Jeez, had she just asked me a question?

  I didn’t want her to think I wasn’t interested in what she was saying—I wasn’t, but I didn’t want her to know that—so I set aside my teacup and acted like I’d just thought of something.

  “That reminds me,” I said. “Did you get a new car?”

  Evelyn gasped and lurched back a little. The teacup rattled in her hand. Her cheeks turned pink.

  Jeez, I really hope Evelyn never tries to take up poker.

  “Well, Haley, actually I—I did,” she said, her gaze bouncing everywhere in the room but on me.

  For about a half-second, I considered that she might have bought the yellow Beetle for a niece or nephew, or something. Evelyn certainly had plenty of money, thanks to the generous settlement Ty had insisted on after “the incident” last fall. But that didn’t explain why I was being followed.

  “Is it a Volkswagen Beetle?” I asked. “Bright yellow?”

  “Well, yes.” Evelyn’s gaze dropped to the floor for about a minute, then she drew in a breath and looked at me again. “I guess you saw me.”

  I thought it might alarm her to know that I’d had a private detective access her DMV records, so I didn’t say anything.

  Evelyn pressed her fingertips to her lips. For a moment I thought she might cry but—whew!—she didn’t.

  I’m not good with a crier.

  “I want to start working again,” Evelyn said.

  “You do?” I might have said that louder than I meant to.

  Evelyn nodded. “I think it’s time. So I bought a new car.”

  “A yellow Bug?” I might have said that a little too loud also.

  “I wanted something bold,” Evelyn said. “I thought driving it might make me feel ... bold.”

  I doubted Evelyn had ever done anything bold in her entire life, but this hardly seemed the time to say so.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I drove by your apartment and the store, and that I followed you to that lovely house out in La Cañada Flintridge.” Evelyn twisted her fingers together. “But I thought that if I was out and I got too upset, well, you’d be nearby and maybe ...”

  I don’t know what it is about Evelyn. But for some reason, I can’t stop wanting to help her.

  “It’s fine,” I said. “If you need me—anywhere, anytime—just call.”

  “Thank you, Haley,” she said softly.

  Then it hit me that Evelyn had said she wanted to start working again. Yikes! I couldn’t imagine her dealing with crabby, backstabbing coworkers and demanding, insulting, overbearing supervisors.

  I might have to get a job at the same place just to protect her.

  “When you get to the new job,” I said, “you’ll have to stand up for yourself.”

  Evelyn looked surprised.

  “I know it will be hard because you haven’t been out much lately,” I said, using my pay-attention-I-know-what-I’m-talking-about voice. “But you can’t let other people take advantage of you. You have to be tough.”

  Evelyn cringed. “Really? Do you think so?”

  “Yes, absolutely,” I said. “And you can do it. You’re stronger than you think.”

  She
seemed to process my words for a minute or two, then sat up a little straighter. “You’re right, Haley. I am stronger now.”

  “You bet you are,” I said. “You bought that really cool Beetle.”

  “I did, didn’t I,” she said, as if she just realized it.

  “And you’re driving it all over the place.”

  Evelyn nodded. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  “You’re going to be great at work,” I told her. “Just remember, no matter what other people say, you have to stick by what you know is right.”

  She made a fist and bounced it off the coffee table. “I will.”

  Cool.

  It was a Gucci day. Definitely a Gucci day.

  Bright and early the next morning, I nosed my Honda into a spot in the Dempsey Rowland parking garage and moved with the crowd into the lobby, then took the elevator up to the fifth floor.

  I felt like I really fit in today. I had on one of the new suits Marcie had helped me pick out—I went with classic black—and teamed it with some of the conservative-yet-sassy accessories, and a pair of the I-refuse-to-take-this-job-seriously shoes I’d also purchased.

  The only thing needed to complete the look was a Temptress bag. I’d searched everywhere for one, and even put myself on a waiting list at a couple of stores, but no luck yet. I wasn’t deterred. I’d been down this road many, many times.

  Even though I’d only worked here a short while, I recognized some of the people moving along the Dempsey Rowland halls with me. Lots of men, young and old. A few women, all old.

  I smiled and said hi. I got a few smiles in return and a couple of good mornings, but nobody seemed all that friendly. It made me wonder if that whole Violet-was-murdered-and-the-cops-questioned-me thing had something to do with the cool reception I was receiving.

  But maybe I was just being paranoid. It was, after all, Monday morning.

  I turned a corner and saw Max Corwin headed my way with a cup of coffee in his hand.

  “Morning, Max,” I said.

  He stopped, glanced around, then leaned in a little.