Tote Bags and Toe Tags

by Dorothy Howell

  I didn’t see why that shouldn’t happen.

  The day was beautiful, of course, as it most always is in Southern California. Lots of well-dressed people were on the street, headed somewhere important, or having lunch with someone who mattered.

  I drew in a breath, taking in the sweet smells of the plants blooming at the open-air dining plaza as I walked by, thinking about how I’d like to—

  Wait a second.

  I froze, too stunned to move.

  Ty sat at one of the tables. He had on a suit.

  Seated across from him was a woman.

  I glanced at my watch and saw that it was a few minutes after one. Ty should have been at his appointment at the GSB&T that he’d told me about this morning.

  Of course, his appointment could have been canceled or rescheduled. Or maybe he’d gotten there early, handled whatever he’d gone there to handle, and left.

  But none of that explained why he was having lunch—with a woman.

  I got an icky feeling in my stomach.

  Maybe Ty hadn’t had an appointment at all. Maybe he’d told me that as cover in case I spotted him downtown today. Maybe he’d lied to me.

  I intended to find out.

  My feet felt really heavy, like I was walking in slow motion. The two of them were talking. The remains of their lunch were on the table between them. They’d been there for a while.

  I looped around to the right to get a better look at her. From what I could see, she was young, maybe my age, with light brown hair, which she’d pulled back in a low ponytail. She had on a business suit, but she’d amped it up with some incredible accessories that really—

  I stopped again. Oh my God. She was Dale Winslow. I’d sent Ty her résumé and he’d told me he wanted to talk to her about a position at Holt’s. That’s what was going on.

  Whew!

  Wow, what a relief. And how silly of me. Jeez, why would I think—even for a minute—that Ty had gone behind my back to see someone else?

  Maybe because he’d lied about his trip to Palmdale. And because he hadn’t gone to work for over a week and he’d never told me what he did all day, where he went, or who he saw.

  I pushed those thoughts—reasonable though they were—out of my mind. I didn’t want to think about them now. Besides, I was sure there was a logical explanation for everything Ty did.

  Even if he never told me what it was.

  As I walked closer, I saw Dale lean forward just a bit and say something. Ty laughed. He really laughed. He threw back his head and laughed.

  I don’t think I’d ever seen him do that.

  Then Ty leaned forward and said something to Dale. She giggled, and Ty started laughing again. They bantered back and forth, oblivious to everyone and everything around them.

  Including me.

  Ty finally composed himself and smiled across the table at Dale.

  My heart thumped hard and seemed to sink into my belly.

  I’d seen that smile before. But not on Ty’s face. Never. Not once.

  I’d seen that smile on Shuman’s face when he looked at his girlfriend.

  I just stood there, unable to move. A minute or so later, Ty must have caught a glimpse of me from the corner of his eye because he did a double take and rose from his chair.

  “Haley, this is a surprise.” He held out his arm and I walked over, then he brushed a kiss against my cheek.

  He didn’t smile.

  “It’s so good to see you again, Haley,” Dale said.

  She sounded as if she truly meant it. She wasn’t uncomfortable with me finding her having lunch with Ty.

  Whatever was going on between them was one-way.

  “We were just discussing my coming to work for Holt’s,” Dale said. “Sit down. Join us.”

  “Yes,” Ty said, pulling out an extra chair. “Join us.”

  My stomach felt queasy. My head hurt. I wanted to cry.

  “I’ve got to get back to the office,” I said. It came out sounding kind of strained.

  “Oh, well, if you’re sure,” Dale said.

  “I’m sure,” I said.

  I left the table. At the sidewalk, I glanced back. Ty just stood there watching me.

  Still no smile.

  I walked away.

  I spent most of the afternoon staring out my office window at the pedestrians and traffic on Figueroa Street.

  Ty didn’t call.

  He didn’t send flowers.

  I couldn’t bring myself to call Marcie and talk to her about the whole Dale and Ty thing because I wasn’t sure exactly what had happened.

  I just knew that something had changed.

  My cell phone pinged. It was a text from Amber saying she was more than willing to help me sort out the retirement party info, and that we could hook up later tonight.

  Movement in the hallway outside my office caught my attention and I realized employees were leaving. Jeez, it was five already? How had that happened?

  I didn’t really want to go home and see Ty. I wasn’t sure if he’d be there or not, but, either way, I wasn’t up to talking to him yet.

  I almost wished I was scheduled to work at Holt’s tonight.

  Good grief. What has my life become?

  I got my purse and tote, and left my office.

  There was nothing to do but go see my mom.

  In the whole maybe-dead-maybe-kidnapped situation with Juanita, I figured I’d done all I could do. I’d looked everywhere I knew to look. I’d checked with the police, hospitals, and morgue. I’d been to her house. I’d phoned her. I’d talked to her neighbor. I’d even called in a major favor with the maybe–Russian mob.

  I only knew one more thing to try.

  When I pulled into the driveway at Mom’s house and went inside, the place was deadly silent. My dad wasn’t home yet. He usually worked late—not that I blamed him, of course.

  From the look of things, Juanita had either come back to work or Mom had hired another housekeeper.

  “Mom?” I called as I walked through the house.

  “In here, sweetie,” she answered.

  I followed her voice and found her in the family room. She was stretched out on the chaise, and looked like she had just stepped from the pages of the magazine that was on her lap.

  A Prada ad, specifically. Slacks and sweater in browns and golds, three-inch heels, accessories that equaled the median income of most Midwesterners. Hair perfectly coiffed, makeup expertly applied.

  Just another L.A. housewife. That was my mom.

  “I’m so glad you’re here, Haley,” Mom said. “I just had the most wonderful idea.”

  Oh, dear God, no.

  “You’re going to love this,” she declared.

  My left cheek started to twitch.

  “I’m going to start my own clothing line,” Mom said.

  I began to blink uncontrollably.

  “And now that you have your college degree,” she said, “we can be partners.”

  I’m pretty sure a big chunk of my hair fell out.

  “Won’t that be fabulous?” Mom asked.

  “You know, Mom, I just stopped by to ask you about Juanita,” I said. “Has she come back to work?”

  Mom frowned slightly, careful as always not to cause undue premature wrinkling.

  “She most certainly has not,” she told me.

  “Have you heard from her?”

  “Not a word,” Mom reported.

  When I’d mentioned Juanita’s disappearance to Ty, he’d asked what had happened just before she left Mom’s house the last time. Maybe I should have thought of that myself when this whole thing started and saved myself some time and effort.

  Because, really, I should have known from the beginning who was responsible for Juanita’s disappearance: Mom.

  “So what happened before she left?” I asked.

  Mom looked totally lost now.

  “Something must have happened,” I said. “Did you two have a disagreement of some kind?”r />
  “No, of course not,” Mom insisted.

  “Did Juanita have some sort of problem? Did she need something?” I asked. “Anything at all?”

  Mom was quiet while she pondered my question—either that or she’d forgotten what I’d asked.

  “Well, she did mention her daughter,” Mom said finally. “But it was only in passing.”

  “Which daughter?” I asked.

  I knew Juanita had two grown daughters. One lived near her in Eagle Rock and the other had recently moved to Arizona.

  “Her oldest, the one who’s living in Scottsdale now,” Mom said. “Juanita mentioned she wanted to go visit her because she was pregnant and was having some problems.”

  “You did tell her to go, didn’t you?” I asked.

  Mom paused, thinking back—I hope.

  “She didn’t ask to go,” Mom said. “Why would she? Juanita was well aware of my dinner party scheduled for Saturday evening.”

  Oh, jeez.

  “You didn’t tell her to go right away?” I asked. “You didn’t tell her that her daughter was more important than your dinner party?”

  Mom looked completely baffled. “She didn’t ask to go.”

  I wanted to tell Mom that she should have insisted that Juanita leave immediately, that her daughter and unborn grandchild were far more important than a dinner party. That’s what Juanita wanted to hear. That’s what she deserved to hear.

  And that, even as hurt as she must have been—that’s most likely why she was crying when her neighbor saw her leave her house with what must have been her husband and another male relative—Juanita had probably sent that young woman to Mom’s place to help with the dinner party. The woman spoke so little English that Mom interpreted her comments to be a ransom demand.

  But, somehow, I didn’t think Mom would get it, and I sure as heck didn’t want to hang around and try to explain it to her.

  “I have to go,” I said, and headed for the door.

  I drove around for a long time, got a burger and fries from the Jack-in-the-Box drive-thru, stopped for a mocha frappuccino at Starbucks, and pretty much chucked my whole-new-me policy. I still wasn’t ready to go home yet so I brought my totally embarrassing nondesigner tote into Starbucks and set to work trying to figure out Mr. Dempsey’s retirement party plans.

  Luckily, Amber called and promised to come right over. One more mocha frappuccino later, she showed up.

  “Okay, what have we got here?” she asked, flipping through the files. “Wow, this is a real mess.”

  “I’ll get you a coffee,” I said, figuring she’d need the caffeine jolt.

  When I brought it back to the table, she had a tablet out, making notes. I didn’t want to just sit there and watch her work—nor did I want to do any actual work myself—so I asked if I could borrow her laptop.

  “Sure,” she said, and pulled it from the bag she’d brought in with her.

  I was all set to surf the Net, visit my favorite fashion sites, and check the availability of the Temptress at all the major department stores, when I remembered the CD that Jack had copied from Constance’s computer during our covet op.

  I pulled the disk out of my tote.

  “This might have some info on it,” I said, placing it on the table.

  Amber nodded as she flipped papers, made notes in the corners, and clipped them together in separate batches.

  “I’ll check it out in a sec,” she said.

  Not that I was feeling guilty, or anything, that Amber was working so hard and I wasn’t, but I decided I should at least try to look like I was doing something constructive. I opened the Burberry jewel case and popped the CD with the history of Dempsey Rowland into the laptop, thinking maybe I could use some of the photos at Violet’s memorial service tomorrow. A lot of old-timers would be there and would probably get a kick out of seeing themselves looking younger and, no doubt, thinner.

  I grabbed my frappie and settled in, ready to be bored to tears by the upcoming retrospective of Dempsey Rowland company picnics, Christmas parties, and corporate facts and figures.

  Instead, I saw photos of Arthur Dempsey as a young man, in middle age, and then as I knew him from the office now. He was in luxury yachts, private airplanes, limousines; going in and out of hotel rooms with young, sexy, big-boobed girls, and huddled with other men in informal meetings.

  Arthur Dempsey—nor anyone else in the pictures—had not posed for these shots.

  Interspersed with the photos were black and white pics of bank statements and what appeared to be legal documents.

  “What the hell?” Amber asked.

  I realized then that she was watching the CD with me.

  “I’m not sure,” I said.

  Amber turned up the volume. I hit the PLAY button and the CD started over.

  I’d only heard Violet’s voice for a few grueling hours during orientation, but it had left an impression on me. I recognized it right away.

  While the CD played, Violet’s voice-over described Arthur Dempsey’s forty-year history of corruption—photos thoughtfully included: Divulging bids to competitors for kickbacks; using overruns in government contracts for his personal use; accepting—and giving—bribes to anyone and everyone whom he could benefit from.

  “Damn,” Amber mumbled.

  “Yeah,” I agreed.

  I realized that Violet had probably made this CD in retaliation for Arthur Dempsey’s refusal to hire her granddaughter, compounded by her discovery that he’d grossly underpaid her for years. She’d probably put up with a lot from him. She’d worked tirelessly behind the scenes to insure the company’s sterling reputation despite Dempsey’s actions. That whole thing with her granddaughter and her salary had probably been the last straw—along with Dempsey’s multimillion dollar retirement bonus.

  Violet had gone into Constance’s office that morning, no doubt, and put the incriminating CD with the retirement plans. Maybe she’d thought it was a good place to hide it, or maybe she wanted Constance to show it at Arthur Dempsey’s retirement party—his greatest moment of triumph—so everyone would know exactly what kind of man he really was.

  That’s what I would have done.

  But someone must have found out about the CD, confronted her, and then smashed her in the head with something big and heavy.

  I thought I knew who that was.

  But I also thought I knew who else it might be.

  Arthur himself had the most to hide. When all this information came to light, not only would his reputation be ruined, but so would his company.

  I wasn’t sure Ruth would stand by and let that happen.

  Maybe on that last day when Violet had gone to the Executive Unit, she’d threatened Arthur with exposing his underhanded dealings. Ruth might have overheard and decided to stop Violet herself.

  Another thought popped into my head. Somebody had told me they’d seen Ruth with a laptop. Shuman said Violet’s was missing.

  Was that the murder weapon?

  Had Ruth murdered Violet? Or had it been Arthur Dempsey himself?

  I had to find out. And I knew just how to do that.

  I started by calling Detective Shuman.

  CHAPTER 26

  It was a Louis Vuitton day. Definitely a Louis Vuitton day.

  I stood with the fabulous LVT organizer Ty had given me last fall—long story—checking off items on the list I’d made for Violet’s memorial service. So far, everything was going great.

  The main conference center was the perfect venue for today’s service. The large stage at the front of the room was fully equipped for a theatrical production, with curtains, lights, microphones, the works. I didn’t need any of that today, though, just the giant TV screen that hung over the stage; I’d had help from the tech people this morning to get it working like I needed.

  Along one wall I’d placed the refreshment table, and the caterer I’d hired had stocked it with six kinds of coffees, three flavored teas, water—sparkling and mineral—pink an
d sugar-free lemonade, every soda on the market, and three kinds of fruit juices. In the adjoining full kitchen, the staff was preparing to serve the bountiful array of meats, cheeses, salads, and desserts I’d ordered, courtesy of my Dempsey Rowland corporate credit card.

  In keeping with my own personal policy of spending as much of Dempsey Rowland’s money on Violet’s behalf as possible, I’d hired a florist to decorate the entire room with floral bouquets. Flowers and greenery abounded. On the stage, the podium was draped in garland and a giant funeral spray stood beside a large photo of Violet.

  Yeah, I know, I could get into real trouble for blowing my budget big time. But if everything went as I expected, in another few minutes nobody would care.

  I’d scheduled the memorial service for three o’clock on Friday afternoon. That way everybody could attend the half-hour service, have refreshments, pretend to talk about Violet as an excuse not to go back to their desks, then leave early.

  Do I know how to play an event, or what?

  Employees, retirees, and guests were starting to arrive. Arthur Dempsey stood at the entrance to the room greeting everyone. Ruth had positioned herself a half step behind him, as expected.

  It looked like a good turnout. I’d invited about fifty people, in addition to the Dempsey Rowland employees, and it seemed they were all here. I didn’t recognize many of them, but I knew city and federal government officials and corporate executives with whom Dempsey Rowland had done business for years were in attendance.

  Two guests no one knew about were positioned offstage in the wings.

  I glanced at my wristwatch and saw that the service was scheduled to start in ten minutes. Time to make my move.

  After viewing the CD last night in Starbucks with Amber, I’d figured that either Ruth or Arthur Dempsey had murdered both Violet and Erma. All I had to do was prove it.

  I didn’t have any hard evidence, but that was no reason not to pursue the theory.

  That’s how we private eye–event planners do things.

  So I’d come up with a plan to expose the real killer, and as long as that person didn’t go nuts and try to murder someone else—like me, maybe—everything should be fine.