“Nothing here in L.A. He must be using an alias,” Shuman said. “I went to see Virginia Foster.”
My stomach tingled—in a good way, not an I-could-kill-somebody-for-a-Snickers-bar way—and I figured he’d gotten some new info on Tiffany’s murder. But he didn’t say anything right away, just looked kind of troubled.
Not a good sign.
“So what happened?” I asked.
“She wasn’t there,” Shuman said.
He came all the way over here to tell me that?
The tingle in my stomach turned into a lump.
“Nobody’s seen her. I checked with housekeeping. She didn’t use her room last night,” Shuman said.
I started to feel a little sick now.
“Maybe she went to Disneyland,” I said.
“She’s missing,” Shuman said.
His expression hardened and morphed into his cop look.
“Do you know where she is, Haley?” he asked.
“How would I know?” I asked.
“Because according to witnesses at the hotel,” he said, “you were the last person to see her.”
Oh, crap.
CHAPTER 18
I had to hurry. I knew I could be living—shopping, actually—on borrowed time.
I dashed away from my car and headed straight for the handbag department in Nordstrom.
After Shuman had come to Holt’s last night and told me how Virginia Foster had vanished from her room at the Hyatt, I figured it was just a matter of time before the FBI showed up and accused me of being involved somehow. And I had no reason to think they would stop there. They’d probably twist everything around until they charged me with Tiffany’s murder and thrown in their undercover agent’s death, Ed’s smuggling, and Rita’s disappearance to boot.
That’s why I’d headed to The Grove first thing this morning. I absolutely had to find a Sinful purse on the off chance that I could make bail in time to go to the record label’s party that Jay Jax had invited me to.
Everyone has their priorities.
Not a lot of shoppers were out at this time of the day. Mostly moms pushing baby strollers, a few older couples, wives who shopped while their husbands worked.
This was good news for me because if I spotted a Sinful purse, I intended to take out anybody who stood in my way. I could not—absolutely could not—walk into that party without a Sinful bag.
Or a date?
Ty flew into my mind.
I intended to invite him to the record label’s party—if he ever returned one of my calls, that is. No way was I going through what happened a few weeks ago—long story—with him. But that wasn’t why I was thinking about him at this particular moment.
Whether Ty did or didn’t get back from London in time to go to the party with me didn’t change the problems we had—or at least our one big problem: I thought I would lose my mind if he kept talking about the stock market and all that other crap after sex, and Ty didn’t seem to be able to talk about anything else.
Somehow, we had to work this out.
I realized then that I was standing outside a Barnes & Noble. Inside this bookstore were probably all sorts of books, magazines, and newspapers that could teach me how to live in Ty’s world—a little, anyway. Hopefully just enough that he didn’t constantly kill my afterglow—or be tempted to sleep with Sarah Covington because she knew what he was talking about.
All I had to do was go inside and buy them. I could spend a few hours reading, learning just enough to get by—sort of like with my college classes—and things would get better for us.
Our relationship deserved that much, didn’t it?
I glanced down the walkway at Nordstrom. Right now, at this moment, the very last Sinful handbag could be sitting in the display case, waiting for me. Somebody else who definitely didn’t deserve it as much as I did could walk in and scoop it up.
I stood there for a really, really long couple of seconds looking back and forth between the two stores.
What should I do? Put my shallow, materialistic, crazed obsession with the hottest handbag of the moment ahead of my official boyfriend and the future of our relationship? What kind of girlfriend would I be if I did that?
How would I look going to that party without a Sinful bag?
I dashed to Nordstrom.
Anyone in my place would have done the same thing.
I was tempted to pause at the doorway and stretch my hamstrings—just in case I had to go over the counter after an uncooperative sales clerk—but didn’t waste the time. I charged inside and ran into a young woman leaving the store. She dodged left, just as I did, then we both went right at the same time, then both stopped and shared the apologetic smile the awkward situation called for.
But she got a weird look on her face, kind of like she’d seen a ghost—or maybe a Gucci handbag teamed with Coach shoes.
“Haley…” she gasped.
Oh my God. Oh my God.
Emily.
It took me a few seconds to recognize her because she looked so different than when I’d seen her out with Doug. Today her short bobbed hair was spiked up in a chic do, she had on really great makeup, and she wore a fabulous yellow sundress I’d seen in Banana Republic.
Emily looked terrific. Fantastic. She looked better than—well, me.
Jeez, what had happened to her? Where had this ultra stylish look come from? Had she just had a makeover this morning?
Then I glanced at the handbag slung over her shoulder. Marc Jacobs. I peered into her shopping bag. Oh my God. She’d just bought Dooney & Bourke’s new purple satchel—I wanted one of those—plus a Betsy Johnson tote.
Hang on a second. Something was majorly wrong here.
Emily’s cheeks had gone white—even under that great makeup she wore.
“This…this isn’t what you think,” she said.
“You’re a fraud,” I said—actually, I think I shouted it. “You’re not who you’re pretending to be at all, are you.”
She glanced around embarrassed at the scene I’d caused.
“I…I can explain,” she said.
“This whole thing with Doug is just an act, isn’t it?” I said.
She didn’t answer, but I didn’t expect her to—or need her to. I already knew.
When I’d seen her with Doug she’d looked plain and simple—dull, just like him. But that wasn’t the real Emily. This was the real Emily. I could tell it in the clothes she wore, her hair and makeup, and especially by her handbags.
You didn’t carry a Marc Jacobs without knowing what you were doing. And you certainly didn’t buy a Dooney & Bourke plus a Betsy Johnson at the same time without being a fully committed, crazed handbag aficionado—or handbag whore as Marcie and I call ourselves.
And then I got angry—and not because she’d bought that terrific Dooney & Bourke purple bag I wanted—but because of what she was doing to Doug.
He probably thought he’d found the woman of his dreams. Someone dull, just like him. Someone he might have a future with. Maybe marry, buy a house, have kids with. And all along, Emily had been someone completely different. Not at all who Doug thought she was.
“I know what you’re doing,” I told her. “I know what you’re up to.”
Emily’s white cheeks got a little paler.
“Knock it off,” I said. “Stay away from Doug. If you ever come near him again, I swear I’ll rat you out quicker than you can say ‘Donatello Versace spring runway show.’ Got it?”
She gave me a single nod, then raced around me and out the door.
I stood there fuming for a few minutes, then dashed to the handbag department. After a quick sweep of the display cases, I left doubly annoyed because there wasn’t a single Sinful handbag in the place.
I hoofed it back to my car and headed for the freeway, forming yet another mental list of stores I could search in pursuit of the purse of my dreams. But instead I turned south and caught the 10 freeway to Santa Monica—which just proves how supe
r annoyed I was.
Driving with Evelyn the other day had reminded me of how much I like looking at the ocean. She was right, seeing that huge body of water made your problems seem smaller, somehow. And, it was a great place to think.
I needed to think—but not about a handbag, for a change.
Leaving the freeway, I took the surface streets to Pacific Coast Highway and headed north.
I couldn’t get Emily out of my head. I couldn’t stop thinking of what she’d done, how she’d deceived Doug and how it would probably hurt him when he found out the truth.
Why would she do that? Why would she pretend to be someone she wasn’t? Someone way different from the person she really was.
Was it simply because she wanted Doug to like her?
I got a yucky feeling in my stomach.
Was I so different?
A few minutes ago I’d been standing outside the bookstore planning to buy anything and everything that might help me fit into Ty’s world, just so he’d like me better than I feared he liked Sarah Covington—and to improve our sex life, of course. But still, I’d been driven by the need to have Ty like me.
And how many times had I told Sandy to dump her crappy boyfriends? But she never did. She’d proved time and time again that she was willing to put up with anything just to have a boyfriend.
The yucky feeling in my stomach got yuckier.
Maybe I should have kept my mouth shut and stayed out of Doug and Emily’s relationship—if you could call it that. Maybe it would have worked out, after all.
Weirder things had happened.
PCH rolled up and down hills, hugging the edge of cliffs as I drove northward. Not a lot of traffic, which was always a plus—especially since I wasn’t paying all that much attention to my driving.
With this scenery, almost nobody did.
Emily and Doug wandered into my thoughts again. Yeah, sure, women changed to get a man, to keep a man, to please a man. But Emily had changed a lot. Judging from the way she’d been dressed when I saw her in Nordstrom, she’d changed completely, as if there was nothing of her true self there at all.
And she’d done that for Doug? Dull Doug?
Something wasn’t right. Something else was going on.
I fished my Bluetooth out of my purse and punched in Jack Bishop’s number. He answered on the third ring.
“There’s this guy,” I said. “His name is Doug Eisner.”
“Your ex?” Jack asked.
How did everybody know about Doug? Were we picked up on security cameras somewhere? Had Ben Oliver followed Doug around, shot footage with me in it, and posted it on the Internet? Had Doug splashed me all over his Face-book page?
“Can you check out his new girlfriend?” I asked.
Jack didn’t answer for a minute.
“This isn’t some jealousy issue between the two of you, is it?” he asked.
Jeez, did everybody think I still had the hots for Doug?
“You wish,” I said. “Her name is Emily. I need to find out everything about her.”
“A first name? That’s all you’ve got for me?”
“You’ll figure out the rest.”
“Damn right I could,” Jack said. “But why should I?”
“Because I saw her earlier today carrying a Marc Jacobs handbag,” I said.
Jack was quiet for a moment. “So?”
“A Marc Jacobs,” I said again.
Jeez, why didn’t he get it?
“And she’d just bought a Dooney & Bourke and a Betsy Johnson,” I added, since he seemed to need further explanation.
Jack didn’t say anything.
“Look,” I said. “She’s not who she’s pretending to be.”
“And you know this because of the purses she bought?” Jack asked.
“Yes,” I said. Thank goodness, he finally understood.
“I’ll check her out,” Jack said. “You owe me.”
I already knew that.
I hung up.
I was late for work again.
I knew that because when I got to the employee breakroom, nobody else was there and my name was written on the white board again. But luckily I’d missed Shannon’s supposed pep talk about the secret shopper and the customer satisfaction thermometer chart that was falling again, even after a repeat of the training program.
Somehow we’d fallen below beach towel range and were now in the you’ll-be-lucky-to-keep-your-jobs category.
Jeez, I wonder how that kept happening?
I clocked in, stowed my purse—keeping my cell phone with me in direct violation of Holt’s policy—and headed out to the sales floor.
Tonight I was assigned to the ILA department—that’s retail speak for Intimates, Lingerie, and Accessories—which meant I was no doubt destined to spend the next few hours straightening displays of socks.
I hate my life.
“Haley?” a woman called.
Just in case it was a customer, I kept walking.
“Haley, I need to talk to you,” she said, a little louder.
Just in case it was Shannon, I walked faster.
“Haley? Stop, please,” she all but shouted.
I recognized Jeanette’s voice. She sounded like she was in store-manager mode.
I stopped and turned, then gasped in horror. Jeanette had on a dress with wide horizontal bands of white, red, and black. She looked like a cargo ship backing into the harbor.
“I need to discuss something with you,” Jeanette said.
Yeah, okay, I knew I’d been late two nights in a row but, jeez, it wasn’t the end of the world. And it certainly didn’t rate a conversation with the store manager. Surely she had something more important to do—something that would benefit Holt’s—than to talk to me.
I’d have to find a way to work this into my next conversation with Ty—if he ever called me again.
At this point, the natural instinct was to rush ahead with an explanation of why I was late, followed by a promise that it wouldn’t happen again. I’d learned long ago to fight that instinct. Just in case.
“There’s a special project coming up, Haley, and I’d like you to take charge of it,” Jeanette said.
See what I mean?
“I’m kind of busy working intimates,” I said, in keeping with my strict never-volunteer-for-anything policy.
“Our annual Blue Jeans Blowout sale is coming up and all of our denim merchandise has to be tagged,” Jeanette said. “I need someone to take charge of it who works well with little or no supervision, and I think that person is you.”
Did she have me mixed up with someone else, or what?
I shook my head. “I don’t know, Jeanette.”
“You’ll work your entire shift in the stock room,” she said.
My entire shift? In the stock room? No customers? With management approval?
Cool.
“If it will help out our Holt’s team, I’ll be happy to take it on,” I told her.
“Shannon will explain everything to you,” Jeanette said, then walked away.
Though she hadn’t said so, I was pretty sure Jeanette intended for me to go find Shannon and get the particulars about my new assignment, rather than report to the accessories department right now.
At least that’s the way I’m choosing to interpret it.
Knowing that Shannon spent most of her shift in the front of the store watching the cashiers, like a vulture hovering over a dying carcass, I headed to the rear of the store. Sandy waved to me from the shelves of handbags she was straightening.
Since I’m genetically predisposed to turning away at the sight of nondesigner handbags, it took a great deal of effort for me to walk over and talk to her. But hey, that’s what friends do. Right?
“You’re here,” she said. “I didn’t see you in the breakroom just now.”
“I’m handling a special project,” I said. “Jeanette asked me personally to take it on.”
“Oh.” Sandy grinned. “I thought
maybe you were out with your boyfriend.”
I froze. How would she know about Ty? I’d never told a soul about him—not here at Holt’s, anyway.
“How did you know about him?” I asked.
Sandy shrugged. “I saw you two in the parking lot after work a few weeks ago. Can’t say that I’m crazy about the little white Kia he drives, but he seemed like a nice guy.”
Oh my God. She had to be talking about Doug. He was the only guy I knew who drove a Kia. She thought Doug was my boyfriend—still—not Ty.
“Doug and I broke up,” I said.
“Too bad,” Sandy said. “He was kind of good looking.”
I walked away feeling a little rattled by what Sandy had said.
No way did I want anyone at Holt’s to know I was dating Ty. Guess I’d gotten lucky that Sandy had been behind the times and was really talking about Doug. Since I’d been away in Europe for a while, it made sense. Doug was the last guy anybody here would have seen me with. In fact, Doug was the last guy anybody in North America would have seen me with.
My cell phone in my back pocket vibrated. Immediately I thought of Jack Bishop and hoped he’d already wrapped up his investigation of Emily.
I yanked the phone out of my pocket as I hurried into the stock room and checked the caller I.D. screen. It was Evelyn.
Okay, that was weird.
“Haley, something’s happened,” she said, sounding more rattled than usual.
Knowing Evelyn, this probably meant someone had rung her doorbell.
“Are you okay?” I asked. “Do you want me to come over?”
“No, no, I couldn’t ask you to leave work.”
“Really, it’s no problem. Really.”
Evelyn drew in a breath. “Could you come by in the morning?”
“Sure,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Something’s happened,” Evelyn said. “And you’re the only one who can help me.”
Oh, crap.
CHAPTER 19
“So, how are your classes?” Evelyn asked.
“Great,” I said, as I pulled away from the curb in front of her house.
I’d driven to Evelyn’s house first thing this morning, as she’d requested last night, and was surprised to see that she wanted to go out again. She’d been ready to leave, dressed as if she’d just walked off the set of Little House on the Prairie, in a long pale green skirt, a print blouse, and flats. It had taken only about ten minutes to actually get her out of her house, down the sidewalk, and into my car. Progress, Evelyn style.
Dorothy Howell Page 16
