Clutches and Curses

by Dorothy Howell

  Really, I hadn’t even thought about it. And now that I was, it didn’t feel so great.

  Could it be true? Could the curse—which I still didn’t believe in, of course—that crazy old lady put on me have somehow caused Courtney’s death?

  The whole curse thing was starting to be more than a little annoying.

  “I’m not cursed,” I told Marcie as I changed lanes, cutting off a pickup. “It’s all a bunch of b.s.”

  “Maybe,” Marcie said. “But there must be something you can do.”

  “Sandy said I should see a psychic to find out how to break the curse,” I said.

  “It couldn’t hurt,” Marcie said.

  Maybe she was right. Marcie was almost always right.

  “It might help with Ty,” she added. “Have you heard from him?”

  “No,” I said. “Not yet.”

  I sped through a yellow light, my phone pressed to my ear waiting to hear Marcie’s words of encouragement, her oh-so-logical explanation of why Ty hadn’t called, her everything-will-be-fine pep talk.

  Marcie didn’t say anything.

  Crap.

  “Think about going to a psychic,” Marcie said. “And don’t, under any circumstances, gamble.”

  We hung up as I pulled into the Holt’s parking lot. Since it was early, only a few cars were there. I swung into a space near the door, cut the engine, and sat there for a minute.

  What was up with Ty? Why hadn’t he called? I mean, if he really didn’t want to move in with me, the least he could do was say so. It had been his big idea in the first place. You’d think he’d at least—

  I gasped and bolted upright in the seat. Oh my God. Oh my God. Ty hadn’t called because he was coming to Vegas. He wanted to surprise me. That had to be the reason. Why hadn’t I thought of that before?

  I imagined what our reunion would be like. Ty—looking hot in an Armani suit—swooping into the parking lot in a black limo, sweeping me into his arms, whisking me to the heliport for a romantic ride over the Grand Canyon, begging my forgiveness for not coming sooner, pleading with me to move in with him—the only thing that could possibly make his life complete.

  My heart thudded in my chest—sort of like it does when I’m standing outside the Louie Vuitton store—as I realized that Ty actually had another reason for coming to Vegas. Courtney’s murder—not that I considered that a good thing, of course.

  Ty had personally visited the Holt’s stores where three other people had died—long story—to calm the employees and assure us everything would be taken care of. So it stood to reason that he would come here, too.

  I gasped. Ty might be in the store at this very minute.

  Oh my God. I looked like crap. I had on jeans and a sweater. I looked like I was going to be working all day—which I was, of course, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that I hardly looked like the kind of girl who might get whisked away to a romantic rendezvous. I wasn’t even wearing a Victoria’s Secret bra, for God’s sake.

  No time to worry about that now. The important thing was that Ty was here, and we could see each other and hash out this moving-in-together thing.

  I jumped out of my car and scanned the parking lot. No sign of Ty’s Porsche. Okay, that didn’t mean anything. He probably flew in and took a cab from McCarran Airport.

  I rushed to the store’s double doors and stopped in my tracks. A security guard blocked the entrance. He wasn’t there yesterday. Yesterday when I arrived, the doors had stood wide open. Nobody had been in the front of the store checking I.D. or anything.

  “Name?” he asked, consulting the clipboard in his hand. I told him and he ran his finger down the column of names, then opened the door for me.

  The store looked pretty much the same as it had yesterday. Not much work had gotten done with the homicide investigation in full swing, apparently. Workmen stood around talking. Employees drifted toward the rear of the store, no one in much of a hurry. Guess everybody was still in shock.

  I gazed around the store. No sign of Ty.

  Fay—the new Rita in my life—wasn’t in sight, either, so I checked the easel for today’s duty assignment. “Store manager” was written next to my name.

  This couldn’t be good.

  Or maybe it was. My spirits lifted as I realized that Ty was probably in Preston’s office waiting for me. Yeah, that had to be it.

  I struck out for the office suite in the rear of the store, bobbing and weaving around the other employees, then turned down the hallway to Preston’s office.

  My stomach tingled a little. Ty would be there. Just steps away. Waiting to surprise me.

  I paused for a second, ducked into the employee breakroom, grabbed my time card, and punched in.

  Ty would want me to get paid for this. Really.

  I rushed to Preston’s office and burst inside. Preston sat at his desk, the florescent ceiling light reflecting off the bald spot on his head.

  “Oh, yes, Haley,” he said.

  My gaze bounced around the room. Where was Ty?

  “Thanks for coming in,” Preston said.

  Why wasn’t he here?

  “I wanted to talk to you about yesterday,” he told me.

  Where could Ty be?

  “I talked to the corporate office,” Preston said.

  In the stock room? Training room? Restroom?

  “The big man himself spoke with me.”

  My attention jumped back to Preston. He had to be referring to Ty.

  “What did he say?” I think I shouted that.

  “He wanted to come to the store.”

  “When’s he getting here?” I’m sure I shouted that.

  My thoughts ran wild. Ty was on his way? He could get here at any moment?

  Did I have time to go back to the motel and change my bra?

  “I told him not to come,” Preston said.

  “What?” I screamed that.

  Preston didn’t seem to notice. He shook his head wearily.

  “The last thing I need is those folks from Corporate here,” he told me. “They’re somewhat . . . out of touch, I guess you could say.”

  I collapsed onto the chair in front of his desk, exhausted.

  Preston looked kind of tired, too. His white shirt was a little rumpled, his tie a bit askew. A homicide investigation during his very first management assignment—before the store even opened—had already taken its toll.

  I saw no reason to demoralize him further by pointing out that the rough ride had only just begun.

  I also saw no reason not to pump him for info while in his weakened condition—strictly to further the investigation, of course.

  “What have the cops told you?” I asked.

  “Nothing.” Preston’s already rounded shoulders drooped a little lower. “They keep coming back, looking at things, asking questions.”

  “Did they take the store surveillance footage?” I asked.

  “The cameras aren’t hooked up yet,” he said, then waved toward the sales floor. “That’s top priority today.”

  “What about the parking lot?” I asked.

  Preston looked mildly perturbed. “The complex owners didn’t have cameras operating. They hadn’t paid the security company, or some such nonsense. It’s borderline criminal, if you ask me. We expected certain standards when we took this property and now—”

  He stopped talking and took a deep breath to rein in his temper. I couldn’t blame him for being angry.

  “So, anyway, Haley, I wanted to thank you for handling everything the way you did yesterday,” Preston said. He looked a little embarrassed now. “Honestly, I was a bit stunned by the whole thing. I appreciate your jumping in the way you did and pointing me in the right direction.”

  Not wanting to explain that this wasn’t my first murder, I just said, “Glad I could help.” It sounded kind of lame, under the circumstances, but what else could I say?

  “You’re one of our most experienced employees, you know,” Preston said.<
br />
  If that were true, a murder victim in the store was the least of Preston’s problems.

  “So,” he announced, pulling in a breath and squaring his shoulders. “I’d like to do something for the store employees, a sort of reward for what they endured yesterday, and I’d like your input on it.”

  Doing something nice for the employees always seemed like a good idea to me.

  “Sure,” I told him.

  “Excellent,” he declared and rose from his desk. “I’ll count on you.”

  I left Preston’s office. Since my department assignment hadn’t been indicated on the easel at the front of the store, I figured I’d have to hunt down Fay and ask her.

  Of course, it might take me awhile to find her.

  As I strolled past the breakroom, two men walking side by side turned down the hallway and headed toward me.

  Detectives Dailey and that rat-dog partner of his, Detective Webster.

  I froze in my tracks.

  They kept coming.

  “Just the person we want to talk to,” Webster sneered.

  “About what?” I blurted out.

  They stopped in front of me. Detective Dailey looked down at me.

  “Robbie Freedman,” he said.

  Oh, crap.

  CHAPTER 8

  Preston ran out of his office faster than teen girls headed to a blowout sale at the mall when Detective Dailey asked if we could use the room.

  I guess his appreciation for my help yesterday only went so far.

  Webster dragged a chair around to the power side of the desk and sat down next to Dailey. He pulled out his notebook, flicked his pen, and glared at me.

  “I guess this means you two haven’t solved the murder yet,” I said, just to be snotty, as I sat down.

  “We’re closing in on a suspect,” Detective Dailey said.

  Jeez, I hope he didn’t mean me.

  I think maybe he did.

  Not a great feeling.

  “Tell us about Robbie Freedman,” Dailey said.

  The first thought that jetted through my brain was to lie. I couldn’t help it. It was some sort of natural defense mechanism, I think.

  My next thought was to wonder who at Monroe High School had ratted me out to the cops about Robbie.

  The third thing that flashed in my head was to wonder if whoever-it-was had also told them I didn’t like Courtney back in high school, how I’d made fun of those awful stained-glass windowpane art projects she did over and over again, and how I talked about how stupid she was.

  My fourth thought was that I needed a whole new life.

  This was not the time, however, to dwell on that. I’d have plenty of opportunity to do that later—hopefully, not in an orange jumpsuit.

  Back in the day, I’d made no secret of my dislike for Courtney—though I was surprised the whole thing was memorable enough all these years later that someone would report it to the cops. High school was all about liking or not liking somebody. Guess I was a standout—but not in a good way.

  I mentally ditched the thought of lying about Robbie. It’s usually not a good idea to lie to detectives—believe me, I know this from personal experience—so why risk it? Besides, the fact that I knew Robbie didn’t mean I’d killed Courtney.

  Unless you were a homicide detective desperate to solve a high-profile case, that is.

  Crap.

  “Miss Randolph?” Detective Webster said, making the name sound like Stupid.

  “I knew Robbie in high school,” I said. “But I guess you already know that.”

  “You bet we do,” Webster said, narrowing his beady little eyes.

  Somebody should put him on a leash.

  “There was a romantic rivalry involving you, Robbie, and Courtney?” Detective Dailey asked.

  “Something like that,” I said.

  Actually, it was nothing like that.

  Back in the day, I’d thought Robbie was hot, really hot. So hot, I couldn’t get up nerve enough to talk to him. Every time I tried, I got all nervous and jittery, and I knew I’d make a fool of myself. That’s how hot he was.

  I know it’s hard to believe I was ever that awkward, but that was six—or maybe seven, I’m not very quick with math—years ago. A lot has changed since then.

  I’d mentioned my feelings for him to Courtney, and the next thing I knew, she and Robbie started going out. It wasn’t fair. I saw him first.

  Anyway, they dated through our entire senior year and I saw them together all the time. Plus, Courtney talked about him to me in class and when she hung around with me and my friends—totally uninvited, of course.

  I don’t think she did it to be mean—which irritated me even more. She just didn’t have a clue what she was doing. She was really weird like that. She never seemed to get anything.

  “We can talk about this at the police station,” Detective Webster barked.

  Anger shot through me. Bad enough that I was forced to recall and relive those awful days in high school. I sure didn’t like being threatened at the same time—especially by someone who’d probably taken his cousin to the prom.

  “I don’t know what you’re making such a big deal about,” I said, none too kindly. “Robbie, Courtney, and I went to the same high school—along with a lot of other kids. Courtney and Robbie dated. I never dated Robbie.”

  “But you wanted to,” Detective Dailey said.

  He used that really mellow voice of his, the one that made you want to confess to something. No way was I falling for that. Plus, it made me really mad.

  “If you think I came all the way to Henderson, got Courtney to come to the store, then murdered her because of some old high school crush, you’re wrong,” I told them. I stood up and glared at them. “And if that’s all you’ve got, your investigation is in a lot of trouble.”

  Detective Dailey leaned back in his chair a little. Webster opened his mouth like he was getting ready to say something, but I beat him to it.

  “We’re done,” I told him. I gave them big-time stink-eye for another second or two, then stomped out of the room.

  Halfway down the hall, Fay rushed up to me.

  “Where’ve you been?” she demanded. “You’re supposed to be stocking in children’s, okay?”

  I was in no mood.

  “I hate children’s,” I all but screamed at her. “Don’t put me in that department again.”

  “Now, look here,” she told me. “You don’t get to decide where—”

  “Ever!”

  I walked away.

  Like most big companies, Holt’s left nothing to chance. Least of all the stocking of their store shelves and the intelligence of their employees—whom they hired—to do it correctly.

  I stood in the children’s clothing department—which I do still and always will hate—looking at the merchandizing diagram I’d been provided. On it was a grainy black-and-white illustration of the shelving unit each piece of clothing was to be displayed on, along with explicit instructions of where the clothing should be placed on the shelf.

  There were also all kind of codes, numbers, and abbreviations which the company’s trainers had probably told me about during orientation back when I was hired. I’d drifted off in orientation.

  I’d been at this for hours, bringing boxes from the stock room on a U-boat, finding a box cutter—luckily, there were dozens of them in bowls all over the store—opening the boxes, and stocking the shelves, then taking the packing paper and boxes back to the stock room. And, of course, starting the process all over again.

  My anger from talking to Detectives Dailey and Webster this morning had worn off a little. I was still disappointed that Ty hadn’t been here today and more than slightly put off that he hadn’t called yet.

  And, it seemed, I really might have to find a psychic.

  I glanced at my watch, for about the millionth time, and saw that my lunch hour had finally arrived. Since we were all part-time employees—translation: no benefits—we weren’t allow
ed to work more than a limited number of hours per week. Back in Santa Clarita, that meant I worked four-hour shifts, several days each week. Here, they had us working eight-hour shifts. It made for a very long day—one that included an hour-long lunch break.

  Personally, I would rather have had a half-hour break and gone home sooner, but I had no say in the matter. You’d think that because I was doing the wild thing with the big man, as Preston had put it, I’d have a little more pull around here—although I might have if Ty would ever call me.

  In the breakroom, I punched out, got my purse from my assigned locker, and left the store.

  Since I wasn’t all that familiar with the area, I decided to eat at one of the restaurants in the shopping center. I walked a couple of doors down to a little mom-and-pop sandwich shop café next to a dry cleaner.

  Vegas was hot—and I’m not talking about the action on The Strip. In the summer—which, technically, was only a couple of weeks away—temperatures routinely shot to over a hundred degrees and stayed there. And all that stuff about it not really feeling hot here because it was a dry heat was just a lot of b.s. Living in Vegas was like living in a pizza oven.

  I got to the little café just before I started to sweat, got in line, and studied the menu posted behind the counter. I was debating between a double cheeseburger with a chocolate shake or a patty melt with a fries–onion rings combo, when the girl in front of me in line turned around.

  “OMG!” she exclaimed. “You’re at Holt’s! MT! LOL!”

  She looked like she was about eighteen years old, short, cute, thin, with blond hair and way too much enthusiasm to suit me at the moment. She was also speaking text. Luckily, I spoke it also. I wanted to tell her to QI—quit it—but I figured she’d think I was JK—just kidding.

  “You’re at Holt’s, too, huh? Yeah, that’s laugh-out-loud funny, all right,” I said, though the thought hadn’t even registered on my internal laugh-ometer.

  “This is like my very first job ever,” she said, waving her hands and bobbing her head like everything was still LOL funny.

  “You picked a winner of a place to start,” I said.

  It was the nicest thing I could think of to say. Really.

  “I’m TH! Let’s GF together!” she said.