Dorothy Howell

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

  “Hey, Grace,” I called, as I stopped at the customer service booth.

  Sophia from the shoe department was there. She saw me, jerked her chin at me, and walked away.

  “What’s with everybody?” I asked Grace.

  She pulled the accordion file from under the counter where our paychecks were stored and took mine out.

  “Things are a little tense around here,” Grace said.

  “Yeah, I got that,” I said, as I signed for my check and tucked it into my purse.

  Grace glanced around, then leaned closer. “The contest.”

  I got a yucky feeling in my stomach.

  “What about it?” I asked.

  “That customer you bitched out at the register yesterday?” she said.

  “The jerk who almost made Christy cry?” I asked. “He deserved worse than what I gave him.”

  “Yeah, well, he was a secret shopper,” she said.

  The yucky feeling in my stomach got yuckier.

  “Thanks a lot, Haley,” Shannon barked as she walked up. “Because of you, our customer satisfaction rating is practically nonexistent. We’re getting nothing in the contest. We’re the only store in the Holt’s chain to win absolutely nothing. All because of you.”

  Not a great feeling.

  The Queen Mary had been a permanent fixture in the Long Beach harbor for thirty years or something, since it had been retired after seventy years or something, of hauling the rich and famous across the Atlantic. The ship had done duty during World War II transporting troops to and from Europe. Now it was a hotel and conference center, and a major tourist attraction.

  I’d toured the Queen Mary with my fifth grade class, back in the day, and Mom and her ex-beauty pageant cult had hosted a charity event here once; the irony of the whole slightly-past-its-prime, showing-its-years, aging-queen thing seemed lost on all of them.

  But I’d never seen the Queen Mary as it looked tonight.

  Limos rolled up to the red carpet that had been laid out. Paparazzi and fans crowded behind the velvet ropes manned by security guys in expensive suits with earpieces. Cameras flashed. Fans screamed. The never-ending parade of celebrities, musicians, Hollywood insiders, and the rich and powerful exited their limos, smiled and waved, and moved on.

  Marcie and I—and lots of other people—entered with far less fanfare and took the elevator up to R Deck.

  “Isn’t this the coolest thing ever?” Marcie asked.

  “We’re the coolest thing ever,” I told her, and we both giggled.

  She’d gone sort of retro-eighties tonight wearing a short, white, pink, blue, and green print mini dress, three-inch teal faux snakeskin heels, and pink gloves. With her blond hair down straight around her shoulders, she looked terrific.

  I’d picked a brown leather dress embellished with narrow belts across the bodice and around the waist, with a yellow ruffled underskirt that I’d bought at a shop in Piccadilly Circus in London, and fringed, peek-toe ankle boots.

  “That Sinful bag would have looked perfect with your outfit,” Marcie said.

  I’d gone with a Dior clutch, since I’d never found a Sinful, and it looked good. Not as great as the Sinful would have looked, of course, but since I’d searched every store and shop I knew to search in Southern California and come up empty, I figured I could make do with the Dior. I didn’t intend to give up on finding a Sinful. One was out there somewhere, and I would find it somehow.

  We followed the crowd along the carpeted gangway and into the ship. The Queen Mary retained its Art Deco décor. Walls were covered in wood paneling. On the left were shiny chrome elevators and the entrance to the ship’s swimming pool.

  We turned left into the Grand Salon. The huge space was softly lit from the golden rectangular fixtures in the ceiling. Wood panels and artwork covered everything.

  At one end of the room, a giant mural depicted the Queen Mary’s journey from New York to England. At the other end was a scene of English horsemen riding to the hounds, horse-drawn carriages, pheasants and egrets.

  The place was already packed with men and women dressed in hip, funky clothes. A band played at the front of the room. Food stations were set up featuring raw bars, sushi, pastas, meat skewers, desserts. There were four bars. Waiters in white jackets passed trays of fluted champagne glasses through the crowd.

  “Haley!”

  Jay Jax rushed toward me. We hugged, I introduced her to Marcie, they hugged, we squealed over each other’s outfits—where we’d gotten them, how great they looked—all in about twenty seconds.

  “This party is fabulous!” I said over the music and the crowd noise.

  “The label has the entire ship for the night,” Jay Jax said. “Tourists were here all day. Security was still escorting them off the ship an hour before the party started. They caught a couple of girls hiding in a closet.”

  “Who can blame them for wanting to stay?” Marcie said.

  “All the label’s artists will be here tonight. Most of them will perform. We’ll have music all night,” Jay Jax said.

  She leaned in and touched my arm, the universal signal that she was about to reveal something terrific. “Mick’s supposed to be here, too.”

  Oh my God. Oh my God.

  “Mick?” I repeated. “Do you mean the Mick?”

  “And Eric,” Jay Jax said.

  I gasped. Marcie’s mouth fell open.

  Jay Jax leaned in even closer, indicating this was going to be even better news.

  “There’s a possibility that Cher and Tina might come,” Jay Jax said.

  Marcie looked like she might faint. I felt light headed.

  “No wonder people were hiding on the ship,” Marcie said.

  “It’s super cool of you to invite me,” I told Jay Jax.

  She waved off my thanks. “I’d have never gotten this job without you, Haley. Got to run. Have fun!”

  Jay Jax disappeared into the crowd.

  “Maybe she can get you a job at the record company,” Marcie said.

  “Wouldn’t that be cool?” I said. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to finish college.”

  Now that would be cool.

  A warm hand touched my elbow. I turned and saw Luke Warner.

  My heart did a little flip-flop at the sight of him. He looked way hot in a gray silk shirt and charcoal jacket.

  I wished my heart hadn’t done that, though—and not because he hadn’t come through with the Sinful handbag he’d promised. I hadn’t seen or heard from him in a couple of days. I already had an official boyfriend who did that.

  “You look fantastic,” Luke said.

  His words—and the look he gave me—sent my heart to flip-flopping again.

  I introduced Marcie. She must have remembered him from our conversation in the Holt’s breakroom because she gave me a warning look—as a best friend would—then excused herself to go find a drink.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  Luke gave me his killer grin again, and said, “I come out to these things from time to time.”

  I hadn’t realized his ownership of some downtown buildings put him in the record label orbit. Guess I’d figured wrong.

  Luke eased closer. “Let’s get out of here. I know a great place we can go.”

  Leave? With Mick and Eric arriving? Maybe even Cher and Tina?

  “No, thanks,” I said.

  “Come on, it will be a lot more fun than this madhouse,” Luke said.

  He took my elbow and eased me toward him. I jerked away.

  His brows pulled together. “Haley, you really need to come with me. Now.”

  I didn’t know what was up with Luke all of a sudden, but I wanted no part of it.

  The last thing I did want, though, was to make a scene. The place was packed with the rich, the beautiful, and the famous. Security would be all over us in a heartbeat. I didn’t want to get thrown out, and I didn’t want to get Jay Jax in trouble for inviting me. But no way was I going anywhere with Luke.


  “Maybe later,” I said.

  Thanks to my years of clubbing, I had my exit move down pat. I feigned right, then dodged left and darted through the crowd with speed and agility unexpected in four-inch heels. I put some distance between us and started looking for Marcie. I’m a definite believer in the old safety-in-numbers saying. I headed for the bar and ran straight into Ed Buckley.

  CHAPTER 25

  My knees shook and my stomach twisted into a knot. Ed Buckley, who’d murdered an undercover FBI agent, faked his death, murdered Tiffany and possibly Virginia and Rita, and run a bicoastal smuggling operation, stood about a foot in front of me.

  He hadn’t looked like a murderer when I’d seen him in the Textile District this afternoon, and he didn’t look like one now. He wore an expensive shirt and jacket—Armani, probably—and appeared relaxed and comfortable among the celebrities and Hollywood insiders.

  “I never got your name,” Ed said.

  Oh my God. Did he really not know who I was? Was he just hitting on me?

  “We’ve never met,” I said and turned away.

  Ed stepped in front of me.

  “I never forget a face,” he said. “The parking lot of a department store a couple of weeks ago. Today. Ninth Street. The corner at Hill Street.”

  Oh my God. Ed remembered me from the morning Tiffany was murdered. He’d seen me following him this afternoon. No wonder I’d had that creepy feeling that I was being watched.

  “Still don’t remember?” he asked. “Maybe this will jog your memory.”

  Ed reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a handgun. It was small, but I guess size doesn’t matter with guns. We stood only a few inches apart. If he shot me at this range, it would do serious damage.

  He slid the gun back into his pocket but kept his hand in there, too.

  “Let’s take a walk,” Ed said.

  He grabbed my elbow and guided me through the crowd.

  I could have started screaming and fighting, but I didn’t want to provoke him. I had no way of knowing if the weapon he’d showed me was the only one he had on him. If he started shooting, a lot of innocent people could be hurt.

  “How did you know I was here?” I asked.

  “I followed you,” he said.

  Jeez, had everybody on the planet followed me somewhere?

  And how come nobody was following me now?

  Where was Shuman? I’d told him I’d be here tonight. And what about Jack Bishop? He could find me driving down the freeway but didn’t think to look for me at a gathering of hundreds of the coolest people on the planet? Never mind that I had an official boyfriend. Where was he in all of this? Luke Warner had showed up trying to get me to leave with him. I don’t know what a building owner could possibly do in a situation like this, but jeez, where was he now when I needed him?

  Ed and I crossed the room amid the crush of laughing, drinking, talking partygoers, none of whom, apparently, had any idea what was going on. I searched for Marcie’s face in the crowd. I didn’t want her to get hurt, of course, but she’d know something was wrong if she saw me with this guy. I didn’t spot her.

  Off to our right, the lights of Long Beach across the harbor shone through the line of portholes as we left the Grand Salon. The party had spilled out into the entryway. Nobody paid any attention to us as Ed pushed the call button for the elevator, the doors opened, and we stepped inside.

  “How did you get past security?” I asked, as the elevator rose.

  “I’m pretty well thought of in some circles,” Ed said with a modest smile. “And it never hurts to be connected to the jewelers to the stars.”

  Ed must have followed Marcie and me to the Queen Mary, seen what was going on, made a phone call or two, and arranged admittance. Ed did look like he belonged here, and I hadn’t seen the security people out front doing a pat-down or running guests through metal detectors.

  Or maybe he was full of bull. Maybe he’d slipped onto the ship through the kitchen with the hired help.

  “So if you followed me from downtown today, why wait until now?” I asked.

  “I prefer privacy for this sort of thing.”

  “Like with that undercover FBI agent?” I asked.

  His gaze lurched to me, then moved away. I figured I had my answer.

  And I realized, too, that I’d judged Ed all wrong when I’d first seen him pushing that cart of fabric today. I’d thought he was innocent—of murder, at least—but now I knew I was wrong. I’d been wrong about Tiffany the first time I’d met her, too.

  Who else had I been wrong about?

  The elevator doors opened. Ed grabbed my arm and pulled me out.

  We were on the Promenade Deck. Gift shop windows glowed cheery yellow, displaying hats, T-shirts, cups, books, all sorts of Queen Mary souvenirs. The stores were closed. Not another soul was up here.

  Now I was seriously rethinking my don’t-scream-don’t-make-a-scene decision in the Grand Salon.

  Ed pulled me through a set of doors. The enclosed deck had wooden floors and big windows. The lights of Long Beach sparkled across the harbor. It was dark out here. Nobody was around. I couldn’t hear the party noise.

  Ed hustled me up a narrow wooden staircase. At the top was a small landing and one of those metal ship doors. He forced it open and I stumbled over the raised threshold. He caught me and pulled me onto the Sun Deck. It was open to the sky.

  I remembered the Sun Deck from my grade school tour. I’d seen the lifeboat demonstration there. The white boats topped with bright blue covers hung in their riggings overhead.

  We were almost to the top deck of the ship now. I had no idea where he was taking me, but I figured when we ran out of ship, I’d be out of time.

  “You must have been pretty shocked when Virginia Foster spotted you,” I said.

  The ship’s three giant smokestacks threw shadows over the deck. Ed moved slower in the darkness, pulling me with him.

  “And even more shocked when Tiffany showed up looking for you,” I said.

  Ed didn’t say anything.

  “She figured out what you’d done. She asked around, talked to people, figured out you’d killed that FBI agent and faked your death,” I said. “Tiffany was sharp, huh? Sharper than you.”

  Ed jerked me up until my face was close to his. He didn’t smell so great. He squeezed my arm harder.

  “You know the problem with you women?” he asked. “You all talk too much.”

  I considered mentioning that Ty yammered on about the stock market after lovemaking—just to try and build a connection, of course—but didn’t think Ed was in the mood.

  He yanked me forward and up another staircase. We stopped on a landing. The stairs continued up to the Sports Deck. Ed pushed me against the railing. Behind me a lifeboat hung just a couple of feet away.

  The lighting was a little better here. I saw that Ed had pulled the gun from his pocket.

  “You women, you’re not happy with what you have,” Ed said, his voice rising. “It’s not enough that you have a beautiful home filled with antiques, a vacation home, a boat, closets stuffed with designer clothes and drawers filled with jewelry. You have to ask where it all comes from, how it’s paid for. You want to look at the bank accounts.”

  I figured Ed was talking about his wife back in Charleston.

  “And then when you don’t get an answer that suits you,” Ed went on, “you go and tattle to your daddy.”

  I guess it didn’t help that his wife’s daddy was an attorney.

  Ed leaned past me and unfastened the blue cover from the lifeboat, then stepped back and pointed the gun at me.

  Oh my God. He intended to shoot me, dump me in the lifeboat, and pull the cover back in place. It could be days before anybody found me there. I had to do something.

  “Wait!” I put up both hands. “I have to know something. Did you kill Rita? Because, you know, I never really liked her.”

  “Haley!” a man called.

  I whirled and s
aw a shadow moving below us along the Sun Deck. A figure appeared out of the darkness at the foot of the stairs. It was Luke.

  Oh my God. What was he doing here? He was going to get shot.

  Ed circled my waist and pulled me against him, and shoved the gun barrel into my side.

  “So this is the deal, huh?” Luke demanded. “You won’t hang out with me, but you go off with this guy?”

  He started up the steps.

  Ed pressed the gun harder into my side.

  “No, Luke, stop! Don’t come up here!” I shouted.

  “Not until I find out what this guy has that I don’t have,” Luke shouted back.

  He trotted up the stairs.

  I felt the gun barrel pull away from my side. I knew Ed was pointing it at Luke. I had to do something.

  Jeez, why hadn’t I taken a self-defense class at that stupid college I was going to?

  I drew back my arm and elbowed Ed in the gut. Luke exploded up the stairs, grabbed Ed’s arm. The gun fired into the air. I screamed.

  “FBI! FBI!”

  A half-dozen men in navy blue windbreakers rushed up the stairs from the Sun Deck and down from the Sports Deck, pointing guns and rifles.

  Luke wrestled Ed onto the landing. Two of the other men piled on. Someone grabbed Ed’s gun. Another snapped handcuffs on him.

  Luke straightened up and turned to me. He pulled back his jacket and I saw a badge hanging on his belt.

  “FBI,” he said softly. “Undercover.”

  Special Agent Jordan—or maybe it was Paulson—escorted me to the ship’s security office and put me in an interview room. He gave me coffee and a blanket, for some reason.

  “I want to know what’s going on,” I told him.

  “Just let us wrap up a few things, then somebody will be in to explain everything to you,” he said. He actually sounded nice—not that I cared.

  “I want to see my friend Marcie,” I said.

  “We’re locating her. The party is still going on so it will take a few minutes,” he said, and left, closing the door behind him.

  After the FBI guys had taken Ed into custody, Special Agent Jordan—or Paulson—had brought me here. I’d hardly had time to take in everything that had happened, let alone process it. I’d gone from scared I’d be killed, to scared Luke would be killed, to relieved that neither of us had been killed, in record time.