Dorothy Howell

by Haley Randolph 03 - Shoulder Bags; Shootings (v5)

  I wanted to bitch-slap her—just to get her attention, of course—but wasn’t sure even that would break her mood.

  Christy looked up at me with tear-filled eyes. “How do you do it? How do you even get through the day?”

  “Knock it off,” I told her. “I have a great life—and it’s just going to get better.”

  “You’re so brave, Haley.” Christy sniffed and straightened her shoulders. “From now on, Haley, I’m going to try to be just like you.”

  “What?”

  “Do you really have medical training?” she asked.

  My cell phone in my back pocket vibrated. I didn’t care who was calling or for what reason, as long as it got me away from Christy.

  I yanked it out and answered. Stony silence rang in my ear.

  Jeez, what now?

  I got a yucky feeling in my stomach. I looked at the caller I.D. screen. Mom.

  “Haley, something’s come up,” she said. “Something urgent.”

  That could mean anything from a death in the family to a delay in the delivery of this month’s issue of Vogue.

  “You have to come over right away,” Mom said. “Something’s happened at your dad’s office. Something concerning Doug.”

  Oh, crap.

  CHAPTER 14

  I blasted out of Holt’s after Mom called, barking my seldom-used family-emergency excuse at Shannon, and headed to my parents’ place.

  I figured the whole terrorism-espionage thing with Doug had finally hit the fan. Dad must have been implicated. His job would be in danger, maybe even his freedom. The family would be in crisis mode. My sister would have been called, my brother notified in the Middle East. The family lawyer would have already been consulted and would have called in a battery of attorneys who specialized in this sort of thing. We’d need a media consultant, a P.R. firm. The whole family would be put under a microscope. We’d make national headlines. Our lives would never be the same again.

  Not a great feeling.

  I swung into the driveway at my parents’ house expecting to see the street lined with TV news vans, police cars, maybe even a few private security vehicles to handle hordes of paparazzi.

  The driveway was empty, except for my mom’s Mercedes.

  Okay, well, maybe they were just running a little late.

  I got out of my car. Juanita, the housekeeper, opened the front door.

  “Is my dad home?” I asked her.

  Juanita looked at me like my wanting to know if Dad was home at this hour of the day was the craziest thing I’d ever asked.

  “Just your mother,” she said.

  “Have the reporters been here yet?” I asked.

  She shook her head like that was a really crazy question, too, and said, “No.”

  Okay, that was good. We still had some time to prepare.

  I found Mom in the family room off the kitchen stretched out on the chaise, a glass of wine in her hand. Today she had on linen pants, a silk blouse, two-inch heels, full-on jewelry and makeup, and her hair was twisted into a loose updo.

  Mom’s idea of casual—which seemed weird, given the throngs of media preparing to descend upon us.

  “I’m glad you came right over,” Mom said. She looked past me. “Where’s Ty?”

  “Mom, you said something urgent had come up,” I said. “Remember?”

  “Of course I remember.” She sipped her wine. “Where’s Ty?”

  “Still in London, I guess,” I said. “You said something had come up about Doug.”

  “He’s in London? You’re certain?”

  I figured Ty was probably still sleeping it off, after the big party he’d been to, but since he’d never called me back I didn’t know for sure.

  I wasn’t about to tell Mom that.

  “Yes, I’m certain,” I said.

  It was kind of a lie but what difference did it make at a time like this?

  Mom rose from the chaise. It was hard to tell from her stance whether she was upset or not—Mom always has perfect pageant posture—but I could see that she was.

  “There’s talk going around at your father’s office,” she said.

  My heart sank, knowing for certain that he’d been implicated in this terrorism thing with Doug.

  Mom’s chin rose ever so slightly. “How is this going to look to Ty?”

  Less than one minute into the conversation and already she’d lost me. This was a new record.

  “What’s Ty got to do with anything?” I asked.

  “Everything, I should think,” Mom told me. “He’s out of the country conducting very important business and this happens.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “It’s all over your father’s office that you’ve been stalking Doug Eisner,” Mom said.

  “What?”

  Oh my God. This was what she’d called me over here to talk about? This was urgent? This?

  “You’ve been following him in the mall, to the dentist—everywhere,” Mom said.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “You’re denying it?” she asked.

  “Well…”

  Oh, crap. I did see Doug at the mall, and he must have been going to the dentist that day I saw him outside of Starbucks.

  “Doug has another girlfriend. He’s moved on. You have to do the same, Haley. You told me you and Ty were involved now. How is this going to look when word gets out?” Mom said. She sipped her wine. “I don’t know what I’ll do about the dinner party I was planning.”

  This was my perfect opportunity to leave, but I didn’t want to go until I made sure Dad wasn’t in trouble because of Doug.

  “Is there any other talk about Doug at Dad’s office?” I asked. “Anything to do with the project they’re working on?”

  “Of course not. Why would there be?”

  “I’ve got to go,” I said and gave her my standard excuse for leaving, “I’ve got class.”

  “Let Doug go, Haley,” Mom said. “Take my word for it. Holding on to a man who doesn’t want you will lead to nothing but heartache.”

  I could have gone back to work, but no way could I force myself to walk into the Holt’s store twice in the same day, so I drove home. I figured that when I got there I’d break out my emergency package of Oreos—just to give myself a boost—and figure out what to do with myself this evening.

  As I approached my apartment, I spotted an arrangement of fresh flowers sitting outside my door.

  I stopped and looked around, searching for whoever might have left them. I’m kind of punchy about finding things on my doorstep—long story—but I didn’t see anyone, so I took them inside with me. I opened the card. They were from Ty.

  Ordinarily, receiving flowers from your official boyfriend was way cool. It showed that he was thinking about you, that he cared, that he wanted to brighten your day a little.

  But the last time I’d talked to Ty he’d been partying like a rock star, apparently, and had yet to call me back.

  I grabbed my cell and phoned Marcie. A best friend was the only one who could help at a time like this.

  “Ty sent me flowers,” I reported. “He was at a party the last time we talked.”

  Marcie deciphered this immediately.

  “I’ll be right over,” she said, and hung up.

  By the time Marcie arrived, I’d put out a couple of Corona’s, chips and salsa, and the Oreos. We settled on opposite ends of my sofa. The flowers Ty had sent sat prominently on my coffee table.

  “I think Sarah Covington might be in London with Ty,” I said.

  “Bitch.”

  “I hate her.”

  “What happened the last time you talked to Ty, exactly?” Marcie asked.

  “He was at a pub or some sort of party,” I said. “I could hear all sorts of commotion—the fun kind—in the background.”

  “Do you think Sarah was there?” Marcie asked.

  “That was probably her I heard laughing like a hyena,” I said.

 
“Do you think she lured him there and tried to get him drunk just so she could sleep with him?”

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “Sarah probably likes talking about the economy after making love,” Marcie said and tipped up her beer.

  I gasped. “Oh my God, she probably does. And she probably actually understands what the Dow Jones is and what NASDAQ stands for—it does stand for something, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She’s probably got it stitched on a pillow on top of her bed,” I said.

  “Bitch.”

  “And she probably already knows how to play Naughty Stock Trader,” I said.

  I took another swig of beer trying to wash the scene from my mind. As much as I didn’t like Ty’s buzz-killer after-lovemaking talk, I wasn’t ready to chuck our relationship.

  Marcie nodded toward the flowers. “I don’t think Ty sent those because he’s done something wrong. It’s not his style.”

  Ty was the confrontational type. That’s one of the things I liked best about him.

  “You’re right,” I agreed. “But it still irks me that Sarah has more in common with Ty than I do.”

  “You could learn about all that stuff,” Marcie said. “That way you could talk to Ty about it.”

  “Yeah, I guess I could,” I said.

  But, really, I didn’t know if I could pull it off. I’d watched 60 Minutes once. I didn’t make it past minute three.

  I sipped my beer and popped an Oreo.

  “At work today, this girl named Christy told me she thought my life was awful,” I said.

  “Your life’s not awful,” Marcie insisted, as a best friend would.

  “Yeah, it is, kind of,” I admitted. “I hate going to school.”

  Marcie thought for a minute. “Why don’t you go for a different major? Try theater. Remember that girl who went with us to that club wearing that fuchsia sun dress who’d just left her husband?”

  “The one who moved out and didn’t tell him?” I asked.

  “Yeah, and he came home and the house was empty. He got married again, by the way, to this girl who’s a complete idiot, and they went on a cruise and six weeks later she left him, too,” Marcie said. “Anyway, that girl at the club is in college, too. She’s majoring in theater. I saw her the other day and she said that in one of her acting classes everybody walked around in a circle and pretended to be a towel.”

  “Sounds like an easy A, but I don’t think I could do that,” I said. “Besides, I’m sick of working at Holt’s, too. I need to do something totally different.”

  “That’s cool,” Marcie said. “We’ll just figure out what you want to do and you can go do it.”

  Was it really that simple?

  “I’m thinking of looking into one of those colleges that will convert your life experience into a degree,” I said.

  “That’s cheating,” Marcie said. “It wouldn’t be right.”

  I liked the idea, but maybe Marcie was right. Marcie was almost always right about things.

  “So maybe you can find a great career without a college degree,” she said. “What kind of job do you want?”

  “The kind where I can wear great clothes, tell everybody what to do, and make tons of money,” I said.

  Marcie nodded, thinking it over.

  “What sort of qualifications do you have?” she asked.

  “I worked as a file clerk, a receptionist, a life guard, and, you remember, those two weeks at the pet store,” I reported. “I did accounts payable at Pike Warner, which didn’t turn out so great, but I still have it on my résumé. And, of course, Holt’s.”

  Marcie sipped her beer and thought for a few minutes.

  “You know, finding a college that will convert your life experience into a degree might not be such a bad idea, after all,” she said.

  “I’ll check into it,” I said.

  “Good idea.”

  We finished our beers and Marcie got up to leave. She gestured to the sewing machine sitting in the corner of my living room.

  “You’re not sewing yet?” she asked.

  “No time,” I said, and didn’t bother to add that I had no interest in it, either.

  Marcie shrugged. “Well, you’re looking for a change in your life. Maybe you should start your own clothing line—or maybe a handbag line. We could show them to our customers at our purse parties, see what they think.”

  This wasn’t the first time Marcie had suggested I design my own purses. In fact, a couple of other people had said the same thing.

  “I’ll think about it,” I said.

  I guess Marcie heard in my voice that I still wasn’t feeling much better about things.

  “Let’s go shopping,” she said. “I’m dying for a new Sinful purse myself. There has to be some out there somewhere.”

  That kind of cheered me up.

  “Okay,” I said. “But if we spot Doug, we’re leaving. He’s telling everybody at my dad’s work that I’m stalking him.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No.”

  “He’s an idiot,” Marcie said.

  Maybe even a bigger idiot than Marcie thought, if what Ben Oliver had said about that whole terrorist-espionage thing was true.

  I went into my bedroom and stared at the clothes in my closet—I still didn’t have anything to wear—and finally came up with jeans and a black sweater. It wasn’t very imaginative, but it looked good.

  We were heading out the door when my cell phone rang.

  My heart rate picked up a bit. It was probably Ty. The scene sprang into my mind. Him calling to see if I got the flowers that he’d selected so lovingly, just to please me. Him telling me how much he misses me, and that he’s ditching the final negotiations for Holt’s International to come home to me.

  Then I heard sniffles coming through my phone. Christy flashed in my mind. Was she still sitting in the Holt’s breakroom crying?

  “Haley?” a woman’s quivering voice asked.

  Jeez, what now?

  “Who’s this?” I asked.

  “Virginia Foster,” she replied, gulping back tears. “This…this is all my fault. Tiffany’s murder. It’s all my fault!”

  Oh, crap.

  CHAPTER 15

  Virginia looked as if she’d been crying, but she covered it up with fresh makeup pretty well. It helped that the lobby of the Hyatt where we sat was kind of dark. We shared a small sofa away from the few other people in the area. Behind us was a floor-to-ceiling window that offered a view of the hotel’s outdoor patio seating and pool, amid blooming flowers and swaying palms.

  Marcie had understood when I told her I had to go talk to Virginia instead of going shopping, and she’d promised that if she found a Sinful purse, she’d buy one for me, too.

  You can’t ask for a better friend than that.

  “Thank you for coming over,” Virginia said, and drew in a ragged breath. “You’ve been so kind, and continue to be kind, while I’ve not been completely truthful with you.”

  I was dying to hear Virginia confess to Tiffany’s murder and it took everything I had to sit still.

  I don’t think I could be a detective. I don’t have the patience for a long-winded, extremely polite suspect.

  For a minute during the drive over here, I’d considered calling Detective Shuman so he could hear Virginia’s confession himself, but decided against it. We were getting along well, finally. I didn’t want to blow it by dragging him here expecting to break the case, only to have Virginia change her mind and clam up.

  I wanted to let Virginia tell her story in her own way—that’s how they do it on TV, anyway—but still, I didn’t have all night.

  “So what happened?” I asked.

  She gazed across the lobby, but I don’t think she was actually seeing anything. I noted several men wearing business suits, carrying briefcases, and milling around.

  “I didn’t know things would turn out the way they did. How could I have known?” Virginia s
hook her head. “If I’d only known…”

  “Maybe you should start at the beginning,” I suggested, and resisted the urge to add, “and talk faster.”

  Virginia drew in a breath and sat up a little straighter. “I work for an insurance firm in Charleston. Last fall there was a convention here in Los Angeles. I attended, along with hundreds of other people. There were organized bus tours to all sorts of places. Several of my friends and I took a tour of the downtown area. All of those districts are there, you know, one city block after another, all running together. Clothes, jewelry, fabric, flowers, toys. Everything. I’m sure you’re familiar with them.”

  A man dressed in a golf shirt paused across the room and put his cell phone to his ear. He turned away so I couldn’t see his face.

  “We had a fabulous time,” Virginia said, and smiled faintly at the memory. “Looking at everything, shopping, taking it all in. Very different from Charleston, of course.”

  “So what happened?” I asked.

  A young woman in a fabulous Chanel suit sat down across the lobby and dropped her purse on her lap. My heart jumped. Oh my God. Was that a Sinful bag?

  “I saw Ed,” Virginia said.

  I had to go ask her where she got it. What if she’d just bought it a few minutes ago? What if there was only one left in the display case?

  “Right there. On the sidewalk. Only a few feet away,” Virginia said. “I couldn’t believe it. It didn’t make sense. Ed was dead but I was looking right at him.”

  Something jarred me out of my Sinful stupor.

  “What?” I asked. “You saw Ed? Dead Ed?”

  “At least, I thought it was Ed. But it couldn’t have been, of course. I’d attended his funeral. I thought perhaps I’d spotted Ed’s brother, or his cousin. So I moved on with my friends, walking and shopping, and a few minutes later, of all things, I saw him again,” Virginia said.

  “Where?” I asked.

  “A few blocks from where I’d initially spotted him,” she said. “Seeing him once, well, I figured it was just a fluke, an odd occurrence. But seeing him a second time?”