Swag Bags and Swindlers

by Dorothy Howell

  “I’ll walk you to your car,” Ty said.

  I guess not.

  We headed down the sidewalk, turned the corner, and entered the lot where I’d left my Honda. I clicked the lock and he opened the door for me.

  “Haley?” he said, as I started to get inside.

  I turned back. “Yes?”

  Ty gazed at me for a while, then said, “I wish . . . I wish things had turned out differently.”

  “Different how?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just think . . . maybe if . . . I wonder—”

  Ty kissed me. He wrapped both arms around me, pulled me against his chest, and kissed me. I locked my arms around his waist and kissed him back. I could have held on forever, but he pulled away.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and walked off.

  “He was sorry?” Marcie asked. “For what?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “For kissing you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “For breaking up with you?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  For once, my best friend was being no help at all.

  Since I’d seen Ty last night and he’d kissed me, I’d had nothing else on my mind. I’d been so consumed with it that I hadn’t even been able to call Marcie until this morning. Now, sitting at my desk in my office, I still didn’t understand what he’d meant.

  The list of things for which Ty could be sorry was a long one, in my opinion—everything that Marcie had mentioned, plus the things he’d done while we were dating that had eventually driven us apart. I had no idea which of these things, exactly, he was apologizing for.

  The only thing I knew for sure was that this sudden, crazy turn in Ty’s behavior had been brought on by his involvement in the Kelvin Davis murder. Ty had been hit with a massive, life-changing, oh-my-God-I-can’t-believe-that-happened experience and he was questioning a lot of things.

  Whether it turned out to be a good thing—or a bad thing—remained to be seen.

  “If he meant he was sorry for breaking up,” Marcie said, “do you think he’ll want to get back together?”

  I’d wondered the same thing.

  “And if he does,” she said, “do you want to?”

  I couldn’t answer her—because I honestly didn’t know. All kinds of thoughts and emotions were zinging around inside me.

  “Think about it,” Marcie said. “Call me later.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and ended the call.

  I’d spent a great amount of mental energy on Ty since last night—and since this whole thing with Kelvin Davis had started, I realized—and it was wearing me out. Today was Friday. I had a lot to handle for upcoming events, plus a number of loose ends to tie up for Hollywood Haven’s gala tomorrow night. I didn’t know how I was going to get through the day.

  My office phone rang.

  “Hello, Haley,” Mindy said, when I picked up. “You have a client. Yes. A client. It’s definitely a client. It’s that Mrs. Potter again.”

  Since I wasn’t exactly on top of my game today, I was relieved that Laronda Bain was the client who’d dropped by. I’d worked some magic putting her son’s birthday party together—without the benefit of a wand, by the way—and had put in place every outlandish, idiotic request she’d made. I’d phoned yesterday and left a message with her personal assistant with the news. I guess Laronda wanted to come by today to thank me in person.

  Great. Just the boost I needed today.

  “Thanks,” I said, and hung up.

  I found Laronda’s event portfolio and headed down the hallway. She was seated in interview room number one, wearing gray everything—dress, shoes, jewelry—and what I took to be the closest thing she could get to a smile. I greeted her, sat down, folded my hands atop the portfolio, and waited to be showered with compliments.

  “I’m adding another feature to the party,” Laronda announced.

  She was—what?

  “It’s the invitations,” she told me.

  The invitations were completed. Done. Printed and addressed. Ready to be sent.

  “I’d like something different,” she said. “Something more innovative.”

  Oh my God. What now?

  “I want the invitations to be delivered to each guest by an owl,” she told me.

  Obviously, I was suffering from some sort of comprehension impairment this morning, because surely I’d heard her wrong.

  “You want them delivered by—what?” I asked.

  “An owl. Like in the book and the movie,” she said.

  I just looked at her.

  “An owl,” she said again. “A live owl that will fly to the home of each guest and deliver the invitation.”

  Oh, crap.

  Her son’s birthday party was two weeks away. How was I supposed to find owls? And how the heck would they get trained to deliver invitations by then?

  Laronda kept talking, but it turned into blah-blah-blah.

  I’d had it with her, with her kid’s party, with having to pull off actual magic to make things happen—and not just for Laronda. It was everything—the pumpkin-flavored coffee creamer, the lightbulbs that were too bright, the clients who were always coming up with some ridiculous event element, my job performance review.

  Wait. Hang on a second.

  Maybe I could quit. Yeah, I could do that. After all, I still had a job at Holt’s. I’d worked there for a year and I’d managed to get by—

  Oh my God. Oh my God. What was I thinking? I couldn’t quit my job at L.A. Affairs and keep my job at Holt’s.

  That just shows how stressed I was.

  And I knew one thing I could do right then to alleviate my stress.

  “It’s not going to happen, Laronda,” I told her. “There’s no time to train the owls. And even if it could be done, I doubt the parents of your guests want an owl swooping down on their kids, clawing them or scaring the crap out of them. So here’s what we’re going to do. We’ll hire actors, put them in owl costumes, and have them deliver the invitations.”

  Laronda froze—and not just her face. She stared at me, blinked twice, then said, “Oh. Well, all right. If you think that would be best.”

  “I’ll get right on it,” I said, and rose from my chair.

  She picked up on my oh-so-subtle we’re-done-here move, got up, and left.

  I left too.

  I hadn’t received a single call about the journal, so after I signed in at Hollywood Haven I headed for the dayroom. A few things still needed Rosalind’s final approval for tomorrow night’s gala, but I wanted to make sure the flyers I’d pinned to the bulletin board about the stolen items were still there. If Rosalind had torn them down to keep from dealing with the situation, I wanted to know so I could bring it up during our meeting.

  Everyone seemed to be in high spirits when I walked into the dayroom. The same guy was seated at the piano and a half dozen women were gathered around him, belting out a lively tune. A group of women had drawn chairs together by the window and were giggling. A foursome at the jigsaw puzzle was doing more talking than puzzle solving, and three men were yucking it up while watching an old black-and-white movie on television.

  I hoped that meant everyone was feeling upbeat and excited about the gala—which would also mean it would be more difficult for Mr. Stewart to cancel the whole thing at the last minute.

  It would have been nice to see Delores, Trudy, and Shana today, but I didn’t spot them. Maybe they were out shopping for more bling to wear during their moment on the red carpet, or were getting their hair and nails done. I wondered if they were busy saturating social media with their prep for the event. I’d have to check out YouTube, Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter to see if they were posting.

  As I crossed the dayroom I found myself bobbing my head along with the music. The tune seemed familiar and, for once, so did the lyrics.

  The two flyers I’d posted on the bulletin board were still there, I saw as I stood in fr
ont of it. Rosalind hadn’t taken them down.

  I figured there were any number of reasons the owner of the journal hadn’t contacted me yet. With everyone busy prepping for the gala, the announcements for upcoming shopping and movie trips weren’t high on anyone’s priority list. Plus, since most of the events had already taken place, the residents probably didn’t check out the notices very often.

  The pianist and singers struck up another song and it sounded familiar, too. Not the tune, but definitely the lyrics. How weird was that? Why would I recognize only the words?

  Then it hit me—it was one of the love poems.

  How could that be?

  Then something else hit me—were the love poems actually song lyrics?

  Maybe I should have paid better attention when my high school English teachers had tried to make me learn about poetry.

  I pulled out my cell phone, Googled song lyrics, and typed one of the phrases from the song the residents were singing into the site’s search box. An entire song popped up. I read over the lyrics and realized that yes, it was a match. Then I saw the composer’s name. It was Arthur Zamora, Ida’s lost love.

  Well, at least I’d stumbled across the owner of the journal. Wow, how cool was that?

  Someone had mentioned that Arthur had suffered a mild stroke recently, so no wonder he hadn’t noticed the journal was missing or been able to check out the notice I’d put on the bulletin board.

  Just for gee-whiz, I Googled Arthur Zamora and got a long list of Web sites. I glanced over several of them and saw that he’d been a composer and lyricist to the stars back in the day. He’d written original production numbers for all kinds of television shows and movies—even for the Emmy and Oscar award ceremonies. He’d composed songs for, and had accompanied, some of the biggest names in Hollywood.

  I read further and saw that Arthur had also become one of the most beloved entertainers of his era. There were glowing comments from everyone he’d worked with, marveling at the depth and beauty of his lyrics. Arthur Zamora had touched the hearts of millions with his songs.

  Ida Verdell floated into my head. Surely, she knew Arthur had composed those songs. Did she hear them and think about their lost love? Did she wonder if he’d written some of those songs for her? Did her heart ache listening to them, wondering what her life would have been like if things had turned out differently between them?

  I flashed on her daughter Sylvia. She was cranky and grumpy, a chronic complainer whose argument with Derrick Ellery had escalated into a heated exchange so intense I considered her a suspect in his murder. Surely, a daughter from Ida’s union with Arthur would have turned out differently.

  Sadness weighed me down. It was too late for Ida and Arthur now. Their moment had come and gone.

  I was glad I could return the journal to him. Maybe looking it over, remembering happier times, would help his recovery. Maybe he’d be reminded of Ida. Maybe he would have a change of heart and want to talk to her—they both lived right here in the same care facility.

  Maybe I was being overly optimistic, I thought.

  Maybe I was just transferring my feelings for Ty onto them.

  Maybe I should leave things as they were—for Ida and Arthur, and for Ty and me.

  CHAPTER 27

  “Hey, where are you going?” Bella asked as we left the breakroom and I headed toward my assigned will-this-horrible-day-ever-end department for my evening shift at Holt’s.

  I stopped and looked back at her. I recognized that pained look on her face and knew what Bella was about to say.

  I was in no mood.

  The Friday night crowd of shoppers shuffled past, their arms laden with truly hideous merchandise. Kids ran through the aisles. A baby was crying nearby. The store’s music track blared an accordion solo—definitely not a soothing Arthur Zamora song. All of this after dealing with the Paper-Palooza protesters at the store’s entrance.

  “We’ve got a meeting,” Bella said.

  No way could I deal with a meeting tonight. My afternoon at L.A. Affairs had gone from bad to worse, thanks to two new clients who wanted me to plan play dates for their dogs—I mean, really, I like animals too, but social functions for a couple of schnauzers? Then I found out that a bakery I’d ordered three cakes from had gone out of business, a wedding anniversary I’d been putting together for the last two months canceled, and the breakroom microwave had broken—which, for some reason, was my fault.

  I was pretty well ticked off at Jack and Shuman. I’d called them trying to get more info on the Kelvin Davis and Derrick Ellery murders, but both of them, apparently, had lives of their own and hadn’t called me back.

  I hate it when that happens.

  And, of course, this thing with Ty was making me crazy. He’d kissed me, then said he was sorry. About what? The kiss? Our breakup? For being a total jackass, at times, while we were dating? Or something else entirely?

  “Come on,” Bella said, gently urging me toward the training room. “At least we’ll be off the sales floor for a while.”

  That was definitely a plus. Also, the Holt’s meetings were no-brainers. I snoozed through most of them, periodically executing a well-timed nod so it appeared I was paying attention.

  About two dozen employees were already seated in the training room when Bella and I walked in. I snagged seats for us on the last row, strategically placing myself behind that big guy from menswear. A woman in a no-nonsense Michael Kors business suit—obviously from the corporate office—stood at the front of the room alongside Jeanette, who was dressed in a where-the-heck-did-she-find-that-thing dress. Two bins filled with packets of papers were stacked nearby.

  Oh, crap. Handouts.

  I was ready to bolt for the door when Jeanette started speaking.

  “We’re very fortunate to have Constance Dodd from the corporate training department with us tonight,” Jeanette announced. “We’ve all been very concerned about the protesters outside our store and Ms. Dodd is here to address that issue.”

  This was about the protesters? I was going to have to sit through a butt-numbing, mind-draining meeting because of them?

  “Our corporate office training department has worked feverishly to put together this workshop,” Jeanette said.

  A workshop? As in we’d have to work?

  “Constance is going to take us through the company-approved procedures for dealing with the protesters,” Jeanette said.

  Procedures?

  “With the help of the entire corporate training team, she’s put together workbooks and a PowerPoint presentation,” Jeanette went on.

  Death by PowerPoint?

  “Then she will lead us through some role-playing,” she said.

  What? I was going to have to actually participate in this meeting?

  “And afterward,” Jeanette said, “there will be a quiz.”

  A—what? A quiz? I was going to have to actually sit here, stay awake during a presentation, get up in front of everyone, and act out what I’d supposedly learned, then take a quiz? All because of those protesters?

  No way.

  I heard grumbling and some groans—and they weren’t coming from me.

  Jeanette waved her hands for calm.

  “I understand this isn’t something any of us want to do,” she said. “But until those protesters are gone, we’ll have to proceed with the training and learn how to properly deal with them.”

  My day had been crappy—and now it was getting worse. I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t.

  I shot to my feet.

  “You want those protesters out of here?” I demanded.

  Everybody turned. Constance Dodd gasped. Jeanette definitely looked worried.

  “Fine!” I said.

  I stormed out of the training room, plowed through the crowded aisles, and burst out the front door. The protesters were walking in a circle, waving their signs and chanting. I yanked my cell phone out of my pocket, activated the video feature, and started recording.

&nbs
p; For a few seconds I was afraid they would see what I was doing and hide behind their signs before I captured their faces—too bad I didn’t have one of those tiny, inconspicuous life-logging devices Delores planned to use at the gala—but their chant got louder and they waved their signs higher as they paraded in front of me. I zoomed in on every face.

  “Hey! Listen up!” I shouted.

  I guess they never expected anyone to drown them out, because they all stopped chanting and walking, and stared at me.

  “You think Holt’s is poisoning the planet with the Paper-Palooza?” I screamed. “What do you think your signs are made of? Paper! And the sticks holding them are wood! From trees!”

  They exchanged troubled looks. A few of them lowered their signs.

  “If you don’t want to end up on YouTube as the world’s dumbest protesters, you’d better leave right now!” I told them, and held up my cell phone. “Otherwise, I’m posting this.”

  They all dashed across the parking lot to their cars. I noticed then that most of the employees from the training room had followed me, along with Jeanette and Constance Dodd, who looked stunned.

  Apparently the procedure I’d just executed was nowhere in her handouts or PowerPoint presentation.

  Everybody stood frozen, staring at me—except for Jeanette.

  She walked over. “I’d like to speak with you in my office, Haley. Now.”

  “This arrived for you today,” Jeanette said, as I followed her into her office and sat down in the chair in front of her desk.

  I expected to get fired—which, believe me, would have been okay with me—but instead she presented me with a large box. It was addressed to me here at the store and was marked “hand deliver.”

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  Jeanette shrugged as I ripped open the box. Inside was yet another box, this one a gorgeous pale blue, tied with a huge silver bow. I unwrapped it, and inside were—oh my God—two Sassy satchels.

  Where in the heck had these come from? Who’d sent them to me—here at Holt’s?

  Then it hit me. They must have been from Nuovo. I’d requested the bags and they must have come in early so they sent them to me. But how had they known I worked at this particular Holt’s store? Was it in their computer?