Swag Bags and Swindlers

by Dorothy Howell

  “Oh my God.”

  “Just like that,” Karen said, and snapped her fingers. “He took up with some other actress right away. It devastated Ida. She plunged into depression. Couldn’t work. It ruined her career.”

  “She must have really loved him,” I said.

  “And it gets worse,” Karen said.

  How could it get any worse?

  “He’s here. Right here. In this facility,” Karen said, and waved her hand around. “But he still won’t talk to her.”

  The image of Ida seeing Arthur, knowing he was close, still feeling that love for him, bloomed in my head. It must have been crushing for her. My heart hurt thinking about it. No wonder she looked so sad all the time.

  “After all these years?” I asked. “Why won’t he talk to her?”

  “Beats me,” Karen said. “His health is poor. A mild stroke, not long ago.”

  “That’s really sad,” I said.

  “Arthur gave all that music to the world, but has nothing for himself,” Karen said. “He never had any kids. Ida eventually got married, so at least she has Sylvia. She’s not the greatest daughter, but Ida’s not alone. She has someone who visits and cares about her.”

  There must have been similar stories about the residents here. Most of them had been successful, well-known performers. They’d given so much. Had they gotten an equal amount back in return?

  All the more reason for the anniversary gala to go forward, I decided. The residents at Hollywood Haven deserved their night in the spotlight.

  “Have you heard anything new about the investigation into Derrick’s death?” I asked.

  Karen seemed annoyed and said, “Those detectives. Back here again, asking more questions, looking at things.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “They’re making a nuisance of themselves,” Karen said. “I don’t know why they continue—”

  The phone on Karen’s desk rang. Just as she lifted the receiver, two couples in their fifties walked through the entrance. They all had sad, forlorn expressions, an easy giveaway that they were in need of a good spot to place an elderly parent.

  I’d had about all of Hollywood Haven I could take. I waved to Karen and left.

  My day definitely needed a boost, I decided as I got into my car. And what better boost could there be than talking to a hot private detective with a toe-curling Barry White voice?

  I activated my Bluetooth as I pulled out onto Ventura Boulevard and called Jack Bishop.

  “Meet me tonight,” Jack said, when he answered. His voice was low and tense.

  Oh my God, I’d caught him in the middle of some awesome private investigator thing. A stakeout, a takedown, a surveillance operation.

  This was so hot.

  Oh my God. He was probably carrying a gun.

  Even hotter.

  If I only knew what he was wearing.

  “Text me,” I said.

  Jack disconnected and I’m pretty sure I made a little mewling sound—how could I not? His life was totally awesome.

  How come my life wasn’t totally awesome?

  I definitely needed to work on that—right after I hit Starbucks.

  A few blocks down the street I spotted my favorite place in the entire world, cruised through the drive-through, and bought myself a mocha Frappuccino. Since I couldn’t come up with a good reason to do anything else, I went to L.A. Affairs.

  The Frappie had my brain cells hopping pretty good when I got into my office, so I decided to take advantage of the mental boost and straighten up a bit. The event portfolios that Priscilla had brought me when I’d taken over for Suzie were stacked on my credenza, an unsightly reminder that I had actual work to do.

  I picked them up and was deciding which file cabinet drawer to dump them in when I spotted the folders Priscilla had also brought in. I glanced through them and saw that they were vendor files. I checked the two on top. One was for an office supply store, the other a restaurant equipment company.

  Okay, that was weird. Why would Priscilla have given them to me?

  It was a mistake, I decided, as I dropped the vendor files onto my desk. At the time, she’d been overwhelmed with all the work heaped on her by Suzie’s early departure—and overwhelmed, too, no doubt, by my generous offer to relieve her of that burden. I’d take them back to her later.

  Rearranging the portfolios was all the straightening up I could manage for one day, so I moved on. I had a ton of things to do.

  Marcie and I were still on the hunt for a Sassy satchel. I’d hoped I could buy one at Nuovo using my ten-percent employee discount, but no way could I count on the acquisition going through while the Sassy was still the hottest bag of the moment. If it meant I’d have to forgo my discount to get the bag, I’d do it.

  I can make the hard decisions when I have to.

  Sipping my Frappie, I sat down at my desk and logged on to the Internet. Searching all the upscale stores in L.A. was the best way to find a major must-have like the Sassy. It wasn’t always successful, however. That, of course, meant the search would go to the next level—boutiques and specialty shops. And if that failed, I could draw on my extensive experience with color coding and grid patterns for stores of every variety in other major cities.

  I’d just finished perusing the Neiman Marcus site—honestly, I’d gotten sidelined by their awesome wallet selection—when Priscilla marched into my office and up to my desk.

  “Haley, what is going on?” she demanded.

  At moments such as this, I’ve found it best not to say anything.

  “You’re supposed to be managing things,” she told me.

  I’m supposed to be—what?

  “The responsibilities of the facilities manager are yours now,” she said.

  The facilities—what?

  “We’re experiencing massive problems,” she told me. “Because of you.”

  Me? I’d caused massive problems? What the heck was she talking about?

  I had a major flashback to my last job—well, really, a lot of my previous jobs.

  Not a great feeling.

  Priscilla sighed, exasperated, and said, “You volunteered to take over for Suzie, did you not?”

  Okay, that much I understood.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “All of her responsibilities,” Priscilla said. “All of them. That’s what you told me. Right?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Everything. Correct?”

  Wow, she was making it really hard for me to blame whatever was wrong on somebody else.

  Hard, but not impossible.

  “Let’s move this along, Priscilla,” I said. “What, exactly, is the problem?”

  She drew in a breath to calm herself and said, “Suzie was our facilities manager, a duty you assumed, which means you are in charge of seeing to it that our office has everything it needs to run smoothly.”

  Oh, crap.

  “Now, I’m hearing complaints,” Priscilla said. “A light is out in the ladies’ room, the breakroom is out of necessities, the plants are dying, office supplies are running short. There’s no pumpkin-flavored coffee creamer. What is going on?”

  Thankfully, I’d consumed nearly all of my Frappie and my brain cells were hopping pretty darn good.

  “I’m glad you came to me, Priscilla, because I had intended to schedule a meeting with you first thing in the morning,” I said, using my I-sound-like-I-know-what-I’m-talking-about voice, and gestured to the vendor file folders I’d—thank God—placed on the corner of my desk. “I’ve been going through these contracts and, frankly, I have some serious concerns.”

  Priscilla gave me a double blink, the beginning stage of back-down mode.

  “You do?” she asked.

  “I wouldn’t dream of taking over the position of facilities manager without first doing a complete audit of the vendors,” I told her. “It would be totally irresponsible on my part.”

  “Oh.” She was in total back-down mode now.


  “The prices we’re being charged for the services we’re receiving are questionable,” I told her.

  Priscilla glanced at the vendor folders. “Really?”

  “I urge you not to blame Suzie,” I said. “After all, she had a great deal on her mind and I’m sure she was doing the best she could.”

  “Well, yes, I suppose you’re right,” she said.

  “And don’t be hard on yourself either, Priscilla. I’m sure you trusted Suzie and used your very best judgment in giving her this responsibility,” I said. “But don’t worry. I’ll handle everything.”

  “Oh, well, yes. Thank you, Haley,” she said.

  “We can keep this between the two of us, if you’d rather,” I offered, as if I was doing her a big favor.

  “Oh, dear. Yes, that would be a good idea. Thank you, Haley,” Priscilla said. “Let me know what you uncover when you complete your audit.”

  “Of course.”

  Priscilla left the office and I collapsed in my chair.

  No two ways about it, I’d had enough of L.A. Affairs today. I grabbed my things and headed out.

  I was meeting Jack Bishop.

  CHAPTER 12

  Jack had sent me a text message earlier in the day, asking me to meet him at a restaurant in Sherman Oaks after I got off work. I was scheduled for a shift tonight at Holt’s, but oh, well, I would just go in late. No way was I passing up the opportunity to get the info I needed from Jack—and it was merely a coincidence that he was totally hot.

  I took Ventura Boulevard, found the restaurant, left my car with the valet, and walked inside. The place had an industrial vibe to it with concrete floors, exposed pipes, and lots of metal—like the decorator thought maybe you’d want to weld something while you waited for your drink order.

  “Haley.”

  Jack’s breath brushed my right cheek and his voice activated my toe-curling-gooey-stomach gene.

  I turned and oh, wow, he looked great. Jeans, a charcoal sport coat, and a black crew neck sweater that accentuated his dark hair and gorgeous eyes. Tall, handsome in a rugged, I-could-model-for-J-Crew kind of way.

  “Jack.”

  I’d meant to sound sexy and cool, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t pull it off. Understandable under the circumstances.

  “I have a table for us,” he said.

  We wound through the bar to a spot in the corner. The place wasn’t particularly crowded yet, and the music was low. A perfect spot for talking.

  When we reached the table Jack had staked out for us, I saw a beer at one place, a soda at the other. Jack knew my policy about drinking and driving—one of the things I was a real stickler about.

  “Is this a social call?” Jack asked, as we sat down.

  “I need you,” I said.

  “Happy to accommodate you,” Jack said, and grinned.

  Jack had a seriously toe-curling grin. Still, I thought it was better to stick to business.

  “I want some phone records,” I said.

  “Not exactly the need I was hoping to fill,” Jack said, turning up the amperage on his grin. “Whose records?”

  “Ty’s,” I said.

  Jack’s expression shifted, as if he was definitely not willing to accommodate me with phone records—or with anything else.

  There had always been some heat between Jack and me, but he’d kept his distance because I had an official boyfriend—something else I was a real stickler about. After Ty and I broke up, Jack had still held back, telling me he didn’t think things were over between Ty and me. I guess now he figured he’d been right—and he wasn’t all that happy about it.

  Jack sipped his beer. “Are you stalking your ex?”

  “It’s that thing with Kelvin Davis.”

  “I know he’s involved,” Jack said. “What’s that got to do with you?”

  I wasn’t surprised Jack already knew that Ty was a person of interest in the homicide investigation. Jack knew everything. It was way cool.

  “Stay out of it,” Jack said. “It’s high profile. It could turn into a media feeding frenzy in a heartbeat.”

  “I can’t stay out of it.”

  “You don’t owe him anything,” Jack told me.

  “I know but . . .”

  Jack’s expression changed again and I knew he realized I was holding something back—and he wasn’t happy about it.

  I probably should have told him about the cash and gun in Ty’s duffel bag that I’d discovered in my bedroom closet, but I couldn’t trust the info with anyone—not even Jack. Besides, I didn’t want to involve him any deeper.

  Jack pushed to his feet, grabbed his wallet, and slapped a twenty down on the table.

  “Ty Cameron doesn’t deserve you,” Jack said. “He never deserved you.”

  He walked out.

  I pulled into the Holt’s parking lot and found a spot near the door. I glanced at my wristwatch. My shift had started forty-five minutes ago. I’d run into my apartment and changed into jeans and a T-shirt after leaving the restaurant where I’d met Jack, further delaying my arrival, but there was no need to waste the mental energy coming up with a good excuse for being tardy.

  Not when something else way more important was on my mind.

  My meeting with Jack hadn’t gone exactly as I’d hoped. Not only had I not gotten the phone records I asked for, I’d made him so mad he’d stalked out.

  I felt really icky about it. Jack and I had always helped each other out with cases in the past, so I wasn’t sure why my request for Ty’s phone records had crossed some sort of line with him, even though I knew he’d never especially liked Ty. I didn’t want to lose Jack as a friend—or whatever it was we were to each other.

  Still, I needed those phone records. I hadn’t been able to find any connection between Ty and Kelvin Davis that involved the financial scams that had devastated so many people. That could only mean one thing—whatever had gone on between Ty and Kelvin was personal.

  I glanced at my wristwatch again. Now I was fifty minutes late.

  Ty’s personal assistant had access to his phone bill, which might have a list of the numbers he’d called, depending on the carrier, but I didn’t really want to involve Amber. I didn’t want her to know what I was up to. She was cool about Ty and me, but I didn’t want to put her in the middle of something.

  I sat there for a while trying to figure another way to get the records, or another course of action I could take, but nothing came to me. Maybe I should have hit Starbucks and gotten another mocha Frappuccino on the way here.

  I checked my watch and saw that now I was fifty-six minutes late. I grabbed my things and went into the store.

  The place was quiet, as usual for this time of night. The customers seemed to be holding back, getting ready for the big after-Thanksgiving sale coming up soon.

  I spotted Bella and Sandy, and two other girls who worked here whose names I couldn’t remember. I waved as I went by—sort of like being in a parade.

  The breakroom was empty when I walked in, but I knew it wouldn’t be that way for long. By the time I stowed my handbag in my locker the door flew open and in stormed Rita.

  I hate her.

  Rita was the cashiers’ supervisor. If she dressed in Holt’s clothing it would be an upgrade. Tonight she wore her usual stretch pants and a knit top with a farm animal on it.

  Somebody ought to report her to PETA.

  “You’re late,” she told me.

  Rita lived for someone to be late for a shift—especially me.

  She hates me too.

  Holt’s we-never-got-out-of-fourth-grade attendance policy stated that if an employee was late for a shift, their name was written on the whiteboard by the fridge. Five tardies in one month and you got fired.

  “I’m not late. I’m early,” I told her, and pointed to the time clock. “Two minutes early.”

  “You were supposed to be here an hour ago,” she said.

  “I was?” I gasped—yes, I actually did that—and sai
d, “I must have read the schedule wrong.”

  “Don’t give me that,” Rita said. “You’re late and you know it.”

  “If I was late, would I be exactly one hour late?” I asked.

  Rita glared at me but didn’t say anything. I mean, really, what could she say?

  I punched my employee number into the time clock, pressed my finger to the reader, and headed out of the breakroom. Rita gave me major stink-eye as I glided past, but she didn’t write my name on the whiteboard.

  I win.

  My day had been kind of crappy, so what better way to end it than working in a crappy store in a crappier than crappy department. I headed for the area I’d been assigned to these last few days, where I’d been moving the current stock to another location to make room for what would surely be yet another brilliant campaign courtesy of Holt’s marketing department.

  “Hey, Haley,” someone called.

  I spotted Grace in the customer service booth. She had the place to herself for the moment—no annoying customers—so I walked over.

  Grace was in her early twenties, going to college and working at Holt’s so she could—well, I didn’t remember, which was bad of me, I know. She was petite, and she always did the coolest things with her hair. Lately she’d been wearing it super short with blond spikes. She really pulled it off.

  “Are you working with me tonight?” she asked.

  I’d served my time in the customer service booth—really, they should issue orange jumpsuits for that department—and was glad I’d been released.

  “I’m in the new section,” I said.

  “Can you believe what marketing is doing this time?” Grace asked, and rolled her eyes.

  I couldn’t—because I had no idea what she was talking about. Somebody had probably told me at some point, but I’d drifted off.

  That happens a lot.

  “The guys from the display department hung the sign today,” Grace said. “Check it out.”

  I didn’t really need yet another reason to wish I was elsewhere tonight, but I pushed through and headed toward my assigned department. I mean, really, how bad could it be?

  I turned the corner and saw just how bad it was.