Swag Bags and Swindlers

by Dorothy Howell

  “Beautiful,” Jeanette said, as I took the bags out of the box.

  I hugged them, feeling the buttery softness, breathing in the scent of the leather, my mind racing with images of all the places I could take my Sassy and exactly which look would go best with it.

  Wow, this was just the boost my day needed.

  “Nuovo sent them,” Jeanette said, pointing to a label I hadn’t noticed on the side of the box. “I didn’t realize they delivered.”

  I couldn’t wait to tell Marcie.

  “I received an e-mail from corporate about the Nuovo acquisition,” Jeanette said. “The employee discount has been increased.”

  Increased? Oh my God. I didn’t know if I could take any more good news right now.

  “It’s fifty percent,” Jeanette said.

  “Fifty percent?” I might have said that kind of loud.

  “Off everything in the store.”

  “Everything?” Yeah, I definitely said that too loud.

  “It’s a fantastic benefit of working for Holt’s,” Jeanette pointed out.

  Wow, it sure as heck was. I could hardly take it in.

  “Do you think you might want to stay?” she asked.

  “I’m tempted. I mean, I’m really tempted,” I told her, as the idea raced around my brain. “But no, I’m still going to resign.”

  Jeanette didn’t look happy—which was kind of weird because, believe me, I’m nowhere near an ideal employee—but she didn’t say anything.

  I figured it was better if I got out of there before she turned her attention to my oh-so-clever method of dispatching the protesters. I put the Sassy satchels back into the box and left her office.

  Bella was waiting in the hall. She gave me a big smile and said, “You rock, girlfriend.”

  Nice to know somebody appreciated how I’d not only gotten all the employees out of a coma-inducing training session, but rid the store of the protesters as well.

  I should take my show on the road.

  “Somebody’s looking for you,” Bella said.

  Oh, crap. Was it Constance Dodd? If so, I’m sure she didn’t intend to offer me a position at the corporate office in thanks for making her job easier, although after tonight, I was sure my name would make the rounds there.

  Probably not in a good way.

  “That detective,” Bella said. “The good-looking one. Shuman.”

  Wow, could my evening get any better?

  “Where is he?” I asked.

  “Over by the jewelry counter,” Bella said.

  “Great. Thanks,” I said as I walked away.

  “Find out if he has a brother,” Bella called.

  I dashed into the breakroom and got my car keys out of my handbag, then wound through the shoppers, my box of Sassy satchels tucked under my arm. I spotted Shuman checking out the jewelry. Something for Brittany, I figured, and my heart warmed a little knowing that he was happy enough to shop for her.

  He seemed to sense my approach—I have that effect on people—and looked up. He smiled. Not that goofy grin I’d seen him favor Brittany with, but it made me smile in return.

  “I have to take this to my car,” I said, and held up the box. “Walk out with me.”

  Of course, I could have spoken with Shuman standing there at the jewelry counter. But Bella was right, he was good looking so why wouldn’t I want to parade him through the store with me so everybody could see us and be jealous?

  Yeah, I know, I’m kind of shallow sometimes, but that’s the tool kit I’m working with.

  There was no sign of the protesters when we left the store. The parking lot was nearly full, customers coming and going. The security lighting struggled against the darkness.

  “So what’s up?” I asked when we reached my car.

  “I passed along your anonymous tip,” Shuman said.

  I clicked the remote on my key chain and unlocked my car doors.

  “Did the detectives believe you?” I asked.

  Shuman opened the door, gave me a little grin—which looked totally hot in the parking lot’s low light—and said, “I embellished a little about the source of the anonymous tip, made the story believable.”

  “Are they going to run with it?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Yes, but I’m not sure how high on their priority list it is.”

  I placed the box on the seat, squared it up, gave it one last loving look, then shut the door.

  “Did you hear anything new about the Derrick Ellery investigation?” I asked. “Something about lawsuits he was involved with, maybe?”

  Jack had told me Derrick and Hollywood Haven were being sued by some of the residents. Detectives Teague and Walker must have learned about them also.

  “Lawsuits?” Shuman thought for a few seconds. “No, I haven’t heard anything about lawsuits. What were they about?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But it seems weird, doesn’t it? Derrick had over two hundred grand in the bank, plus all that property.”

  I filled Shuman in on the info I’d gotten from Marcie—without mentioning her name, of course—about the millions of dollars’ worth of real estate Derrick owned.

  “Where would he get that kind of money?” Shuman mused.

  “And why would the residents of Hollywood Haven sue him?” I said. “Nobody there liked the guy, but that’s not grounds for a suit.”

  Shuman shifted into serious cop mode. “Why didn’t they like him?”

  “I asked around. All anybody ever said was that he was too chummy with some of the residents,” I said. “ ‘Nosy’ is what some of them called it.”

  “You mean like asking personal questions?” he said. “Questions about their finances, maybe?”

  “I guess, but—”

  Hang on a second. Had Derrick’s supposedly casual questioning actually been a cover for something else?

  Shuman must have realized it at the same moment, because our gazes locked in an I-figured-this-out expression.

  “Some of the residents don’t have any family to watch out for them,” I said.

  “Derrick was in a position to know who those people were,” Shuman added.

  “A lot of them suffer from dementia and Alzheimer’s,” I said. “They don’t always know what’s going on around them.”

  “And he could have exploited that,” Shuman said. “He could have convinced some of the residents to sign over their money and property to him.”

  “Since they didn’t have any family,” I said, “nobody would know, nobody could have stopped him.”

  “The worst kind of elder abuse,” Shuman said.

  I thought about it for a few more seconds, then shook my head.

  “But it doesn’t make sense,” I said. “Everybody I suspected of murdering Derrick was an employee of Hollywood Haven—except for Sylvia.”

  I gave Shuman the info I had on Ida’s cranky daughter and the complaints I’d heard she’d made to Derrick.

  “Maybe Derrick attempted to get Ida to sign all of her assets over to him, but Sylvia found out,” Shuman suggested.

  Was that what she’d complained about? Was it the root of the heated argument she’d had with Derrick in his office shortly before his murder?

  “But why would Sylvia kill Derrick?” I asked. “There are some pretty strong laws dealing with elder abuse. Even if Ida had already signed everything over to Derrick before Sylvia found out about it, she could have gotten a lawyer and fought it. The court could have forced him to give it back, right?”

  “I’m not a lawyer,” Shuman said, “but what you’re saying makes sense.”

  “So why was Derrick murdered?” I asked. “What he did was really despicable but, if it could all be undone, why would Sylvia kill him?”

  “I have no idea,” Shuman said.

  “Me either.”

  CHAPTER 28

  It was go-time for Hollywood Haven’s fiftieth anniversary gala and I’d been busy all day straightening out a few minor wrinkles and confirming
that everything was in place.

  Tonight, the residents, celebrities, and industry insiders would walk the red carpet at the iconic Hollywood Roosevelt. The Blossom Room, where the Academy Awards were held back in the day, had been booked. It was a huge ballroom done in classic Spanish revival with a gorgeous handcrafted ceiling, arched doorways, and wrought iron chandeliers. The tables were set with gold and white and splashes of red.

  The menu included smoked salmon, prime rib, a sushi and shellfish station, vegetables that looked too good to be actual vegetables, and a dessert bar so divine it might have been beamed down from heaven.

  Tiberia March from Distinctive Gifting had delivered the swag bags. Even though I hadn’t given her a lot of time, she’d made it happen. All the electronic gadgets Delores, Trudy, and Shana had suggested were in the bags, along with tons of other fabulous gifts.

  Marcie dropped by and we spent a few minutes oohing and aahing over our Sassy satchels, planning their first outing and what we’d wear for the occasion, then left.

  With everything in place and under control at the venue, I headed to Hollywood Haven. I wanted to make sure there were no snags getting all the residents into the fleet of limos that had been hired and to the hotel on time. Plus, I needed to change into my evening wear.

  I pulled into a parking space, grabbed the event portfolio, my garment bag, and tote—a roomy Coach—and went inside.

  A few of the male residents dressed in their tuxes milled around in the lobby; the women, of course, weren’t ready yet—good to know some things didn’t change with age.

  Mr. Stewart, who stood with the men, asked, “When will the limos get here?”

  Seemed he’d gotten over his ill feelings about the gala. He’d insisted on being among the first to arrive at the hotel. I’m sure he intended to chat up whoever would listen to make sure everyone knew who he was and what a fabulous job he was doing—according to him, anyway.

  “I just confirmed with the limo service,” I reported. “They’re on schedule and will arrive in twenty minutes.”

  His expression soured, as if this didn’t suit him—I had no idea why, nor did I care. Twenty minutes was the window I needed to change clothes and get back in time to check off the names of the residents as they climbed into the limos.

  The receptionist—who was still taking her job way too seriously—had me sign in and show my ID, then I headed for the ladies’ room just off the lobby.

  I slipped into one of the stalls and changed into the cocktail length little black dress and peek-toe pumps I’d brought with me, then went to one of the mirrors, freshened my makeup, sprayed my updo, and put on some conservative jewelry.

  Technically, I was the hired help and wasn’t supposed to be decked out as fabulously as the party guests, so my yes-I-can-answer-your-question look was just right for the occasion.

  The finishing touch—as it should be for every outfit—was a Gucci suede mini clutch with a crystal closure and a discreet over-the-shoulder chain. I definitely needed a hands-free bag for tonight. My cell phone, car keys, and lipstick fit inside perfectly, along with a credit card and a little cash.

  I left the ladies’ room and spotted Delores, Trudy, and Shana in the hallway. They shrieked a greeting and hurried over.

  Trudy had on a gold gown with leopard trim. Shana had gone with red to coordinate with her ruby and diamond earrings. Delores was in silver and white, and while Trudy and Shana had crafted intricate up-dos, Delores had on a white bejeweled turban.

  “Wow, you ladies look hot,” I said.

  They preened and giggled.

  “And look at you,” Delores said. “You look adorable. Doesn’t she look adorable?”

  “You look adorable,” Shana said.

  “Very adorable,” Trudy agreed.

  “Come over here, honey,” Delores said. “Huddle up close. Trudy, get a picture. You need to update Facebook.”

  “Shana has been tweeting all afternoon,” Trudy said, as she took her cell phone out of her evening bag.

  I dropped my belongings on a nearby chair and stepped between Delores and Shana. We all smiled as Trudy snapped a photo.

  “Let me get one of the three of you,” I said.

  Trudy handed me her phone and I took a few pics of them.

  “Are you ladies ready to head to the hotel?” I asked, returning the phone.

  “Oh, no,” Delores told me. “We’re going last. We’re going to walk the carpet and make our entrance when the place is full.”

  “It makes for a much better video,” Trudy said.

  I gathered up my things and said, “Great. I’ll see you at the entrance in a bit.”

  They waved and disappeared into the dayroom.

  By the time I made it back to the lobby it had filled up with residents and was humming with excitement. All the women were wearing fabulous gowns and sparkling jewelry. Some of them were dressed in classic old Hollywood fashions—although I’m pretty sure some of them thought they were still in style.

  Oh well, it was their night.

  I stowed my garment bag and tote behind the front desk—I didn’t have the receptionist sign for them but I was tempted—grabbed my portfolio and wound my way to the entrance. I peeked outside. The limos were just pulling up.

  Everyone seemed positively giddy as I checked off their names and they went outside. Not all the residents would go, unfortunately. Some were too frail or too ill to leave the facility. I wondered if they recalled a time when they’d walked the red carpet and attended gala events in their younger days, or if those memories had disappeared.

  Alden the Great would spend the evening here at Hollywood Haven. I figured Emily was concerned that the change in surroundings would be too confusing for him. Ida Verdell’s name wasn’t on my list either. I wondered if her crabby daughter simply hadn’t wanted the hassle of dealing with her wheelchair, though Sylvia didn’t seem like the kind of person to turn down a free meal.

  I sent the last of the gathered residents out the door with a big smile, then checked the guest list. About a half dozen names remained, including Delores, Trudy, and Shana. I figured they were still in the dayroom tweeting and posting to Facebook, so I headed down the hallway. I’d have to round up the others somehow.

  The dayroom was empty. I’d never been in there when it was so quiet. It was dark outside, so the space was dimly lit without the usual sunlight that beamed in through the huge windows.

  I crossed to the patio, thinking maybe the gals had gone outside to film a segment for their YouTube video, but they weren’t there. I went back inside and headed for the hallway. As I approached the bulletin board, someone stepped out of the shadows and blocked my path.

  “You’re Haley, aren’t you.”

  It was more an accusation than a question. I blinked in the dim light and saw that it was Sylvia. She didn’t look happy.

  “Aren’t you?” she demanded, and stepped closer. “Don’t bother denying it. I asked around. I know who you are.”

  Okay, that was weird—in a really creepy way.

  “You have something that belongs to me,” Sylvia said, then dug into the huge tote bag on her shoulder. She pulled out a piece of paper and thrust it at me. “See? Right here?”

  It was the flyer I’d pinned to the bulletin board about the journal I’d found.

  Something wasn’t making sense. Sylvia was obviously confused.

  “That journal belongs to Arthur Zamora,” I said.

  “No, it doesn’t!” Sylvia screamed, gnashed her teeth, and flung both arms out. “It belongs to me! To my mother!”

  Oh my God, what the heck was going on?

  “It’s not his! It’s not! It’s not!” she yelled.

  “It’s his lyrics journal,” I said, trying to sound calm and hoping she’d get over whatever the heck was wrong with her.

  Sylvia’s breath came in short, furious puffs, and her nose flared.

  “Those aren’t lyrics!” she said. “They’re poems! Poems my mothe
r wrote!”

  Now I was the one who was confused.

  “She wrote those poems to Arthur,” Sylvia said. “Then he took them and turned them into songs—and made a fortune off of them!”

  “Oh my God,” I said. “You’re kidding.”

  “I found that journal in my mother’s things two months ago,” Sylvia told me. “I read it. I recognized the songs. She didn’t want to talk about it—him being the great love of her life—but she finally confessed. So I marched right into his room and confronted him.”

  I figured this had to have been before Arthur had his stroke.

  “I told him he was a fraud,” she said, her anger growing. “Mr. Beloved Composer and Lyricist. Ha! I told him I knew he never wrote one word of any of those songs, that he stole every single one of them from my mother. And what did he do? He laughed in my face, that’s what he did.”

  “He denied it?” I asked.

  “No. He copped to it. Said it was true,” Sylvia said. “And then he told me there was nothing I could do about it. My mother had written those poems for him, sent them to him unsolicited, so he could do what he wanted with them.”

  “You couldn’t have sued him for copyright infringement, or something?” I asked.

  “That’s exactly what I told him I was going to do!” Sylvia declared. “My mother wrote those poems that he turned into lyrics, and she—and the rest of the family—deserved our share of the royalties he was raking in.”

  Obviously, I was missing something here.

  “Okay,” I said, “so why are you upset?”

  “Of course I’m upset!” she screamed. “Why wouldn’t I be upset!”

  Just past her in the hallway, I saw Delores, Trudy, and Shana step into view. They saw us, stopped, and stared.

  “I could have had that money! It was due me, after all I had to put up with over the years,” Sylvia said. “And I’d have had it, too, if it hadn’t been for that bastard Derrick Ellery.”

  Now I was even more confused.

  “Derrick?” I asked. “What does—oh God.”