Translation: she was too hungry and wanted to get food together.
This didn’t suit me. First of all, I was in a crappy mood. Secondly, I didn’t like eating with women who were smaller than me. They always ordered a salad, making it impossible for me to order the Trucker’s Big Rig Delight, or something equally loaded with fat, calories, cholesterol, and carbohydrates—my four favorite food groups. And forget about dessert.
“I’m Taylor,” she said, still smiling, still flapping her hands around and wiggling her head back and forth. “I’m SG to find somebody to eat with!”
I introduced myself and decided that if she was so glad to eat lunch with somebody, there was no chance of getting rid of her. I would just have to suck it up and make an effort.
I hate it when I have to make an effort.
We went through the line, ordered salads, and found a table near the window to wait for our food. I got a soda—the kind with the real sugar, not that substitute stuff—and gulped down half of it, improving my outlook somewhat.
“OMG!” Taylor said. She gripped the table with both hands, her eyes huge. “Did you hear the LN?”
“What latest news would that be?” I asked.
“That girl who got killed in our store yesterday?” she said. “They think they know who did it.”
Okay, that was weird. Detective Dailey and that annoying mongrel of a partner of his had just been in the store this morning asking me more questions.
“I saw it on the Internet,” Taylor said.
That explained it. News on the Internet wasn’t always news, more like somebody’s opinion.
“Here’s the LN,” Taylor said, leaning toward me. “That girl who got killed? It could have been her CBF who did it.”
“Her current boyfriend?” I asked, just to be sure. Text is a language with many dialects. I wanted to be certain.
“Yes! He’s a complete CA!”
“Crazy ass?”
“Yes!” Taylor said again. “OMG. He’s like a psycho or something. He’s been in prison. Real prison. Not like a little jail or something. It’s like a big jail—like prison!”
“OMG!” I shouted.
The waitress brought our salads, and Taylor kept talking about what she’d read on the Internet. I drifted off.
All I could think of was how I’d met Courtney’s CA CBF, the charming and oh-so-delightful Tony Hubbard. And not only had I met him, I’d been alone with him in her apartment.
I’d definitely gotten a weird vibe from him—or maybe that’s the sort of vibe everyone who’s been in real prison gave off. I don’t know. But something wasn’t right there.
Damn. I should have questioned him further while I had the chance.
Regardless of what the Internet was reporting—and I use that term loosely—the homicide detectives were still investigating, evidenced by the crappy mood they’d put me in this morning.
But why were they focused on that whole me-and-Robbie-Freedman thing? Especially if they had an in-your-face suspect like Tony Hubbard?
Taylor brought me back to reality by commenting on my handbag. My mood improved. I figured if she knew a Marc Jacobs purse on sight—you’d be amazed at how many people don’t—she couldn’t be all bad.
We sat in the café and talked, and I was eyeing the menu, seriously considering getting a strawberry sundae—just so I’d know if I could recommend the place to other people, of course—when a guy walked past our table. He stopped, backed up, stopped again, and stared down at us.
“Wow, man, you look just like Dana Scully,” he said. He talked like a turtle, slow and plodding.
Although I couldn’t imagine why on earth he’d direct such a comment at me, I had the uncomfortable feeling he was doing just that.
I glanced up. He was mid-twenties maybe, thin, with long wavy brown hair that hung loose to the middle of his back. I figured him for the holder of a GED—the Good Enough Degree—a guy who owned more remotes than shoes. And—yep—he was looking at me.
“OMG!” Taylor said, waving and bouncing again. “Hey, Cliff. What are you doing here? This is SC!”
I wasn’t thinking this was anything close to so cool.
“Haley, this is Cliff,” she said, gesturing to the both of us. “We all work at the Holt’s store!”
Cliff didn’t seem to think it was so cool, either. In fact, I don’t believe he was thinking at all. He just stared down at me with a—pardon the text—CA look on his face.
“Yeah, man, you look just like her,” Cliff said. “You’re Dana Scully all over again.”
“OMG,” Taylor said, looking bewildered. “Who’s that? Somebody who works at Holt’s with us?”
“No, man,” Cliff said. “You know, like Fox Mulder’s partner.”
“From The X-Files?” I asked. “That old TV show?”
“Yeah, man,” he said. “I love that show.”
I liked it, too—who didn’t?—but no way did I look like the actress who played the role of Dana Scully. First of all, she was short. I’m tall. She’s about a decade older than me in the show. Not to mention the blatantly obvious fact that Dana has flaming red hair, and mine is a warm, touchable, glorious shade of brown.
Maybe Holt’s should start drug testing.
Cliff leaned his head back and shook out his hair. “So, like, uh, you want to have lunch or something?”
I pointed to the empty plates on the table in front of us.
“We’re finished,” I said.
“OMG!” Taylor said. “We’d better get back. That Fay person might have an HA or something, if we’re late.”
Like I’d be so lucky that Fay would have a heart attack—not a fatal one, of course—and not be at work for the next few weeks.
We got up and headed for the door.
“See you around, Dana,” Cliff called.
Back at Holt’s, several more hours of my life crept past in a regrettable haze and, finally, it was time to leave. I clocked out, got my purse, and left.
In my car, I couldn’t stop thinking about what Taylor had said today at lunch about Courtney’s boyfriend and his time in prison. He hardly seemed like the kind of guy Courtney would get hooked up with—at least, from the way I remembered her in high school. The whole thing seemed weird.
I backed out of the parking space, but instead of heading for the Culver Inn, I drove to the Bay Breeze Apartments.
The complex seemed just as quiet as it had yesterday when I was here. I swung into a spot outside Courtney’s apartment and got out. The motorcycle I’d thought probably belonged to Tony wasn’t there.
Crap.
Then I noticed the door to Courtney’s apartment was open. I stepped inside. The TV and stereo were gone. I heard noise from the back bedroom.
CHAPTER 9
This was the part in TV crime shows where the naïve, unsuspecting—translation: stupid—woman goes into the apartment to see what’s up instead of running for her life and calling the cops.
I’m neither naïve nor stupid—although I have been accused of not having good sense, from time to time—and this, apparently, was one of those times.
I crept across the living room and turned down the hallway just as a woman stepped out of the bedroom.
She screamed.
I screamed.
We both jumped back.
I sized her up—early thirties, brunette, attractive, well dressed, no designer handbag—and decided she wasn’t a threat. I did this in three seconds. It’s a science, an art—no, it’s a gift.
A gift this woman didn’t have, obviously, because she looked like a trapped animal, desperate for escape.
“Look,” she said, “I don’t know what you want, or what you’re doing here, but—”
“I’m a friend of Courtney’s,” I told her. “From high school.”
She eyed me sharply and eased her way around me, out of the hallway and into the living room.
“You’re Haley? Courtney mentioned she’d heard from you,” she said. �
��I’m Danielle Shepherd.”
“Her business partner,” I said.
She looked surprised that I knew this, but there was something else I was reading in her face. Sorrow, maybe? Courtney must have been her friend as well as her partner.
“Where’s Tony?” I asked, glancing around.
“You know Tony?” she asked.
“I came by yesterday and talked to him.”
Danielle shrugged. “He was gone when I got here. Moved out.”
I gestured to the spot where the TV and stereo used to sit.
“Oh my God. Did he take Courtney’s things?” I exclaimed.
“Good riddance,” Danielle said.
Okay, that was low. To take off with your girlfriend’s TV and stereo after she died was lower than low.
Then I wondered about Danielle, why she was here and how she’d gotten in.
“Courtney and I had keys to each other’s places,” Danielle said, and showed me the big set of keys in her hand. She lifted the tote bag that hung on her arm. “I was looking for some photos of Courtney for the funeral.”
Okay, now I felt like a jerk.
Naturally, there was nothing to do but change the subject.
“Where are Courtney’s parents?” I asked.
“Turkey. Some spiritual retreat in the middle of nowhere,” she said. “I’m trying to locate them.”
“When you make the . . . arrangements, would you let me know?” I asked.
I’m not big on funerals, but I thought the least I could do was send flowers.
Danielle dug out her phone and punched in my number.
“Can I get yours?” I asked.
She hesitated for a minute, then gave it to me.
“I was just leaving,” Danielle said.
Guess that was my cue to leave, too.
We left together and Danielle locked the door.
“You and Courtney ran a fashion accessory business?” I asked.
“If you can call it that,” Danielle said. “It was small. Courtney wasn’t really into it. She just didn’t understand how to take advantage of a good opportunity, and, you know, life is all about jumping on opportunity. She did the accounting but that was about it.”
I paused. “Courtney handled the business end of things? She didn’t design the products?”
“I did that,” Danielle said. “Look, I’ve got to go.”
She climbed into her van and drove away.
I glanced at the parking space where I’d seen Tony’s Harley parked and thought again how awful it was that he’d run off with Courtney’s meager possessions. I wondered if Danielle had reported it to the police. Probably not, given that Tony had done jail time, and he’d figure that she was the one who’d ratted him out.
Can’t say that I blamed her. Tony Hubbard was definitely not the kind of guy I’d want mad at me.
Maybe I’d call Detective Dailey and tell him myself.
Or maybe not, I thought as I got into my car. I had no proof, and even if I did, it wasn’t evidence that Tony had killed Courtney.
My day needed a boost. Casinos and slot machines sprang up in my mind. A huge jackpot would sure give my day—and my bank account—a heck of a boost.
Marcie was right, though, gambling should be avoided. So there was nothing to do now but go shopping. I needed that Delicious handbag more desperately than ever.
I whipped out my cell phone and located another mall on the Internet. The Boulevard Mall looked promising. I set my GPS for Maryland Parkway and started driving.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Courtney’s death. Why had she been murdered? She didn’t seem to have anything worth killing for, judging by the condition of her apartment. I didn’t remember anything about her parents from high school, which probably meant they weren’t wealthy. If they had been, they’d have been on my mom’s radar—so Courtney probably hadn’t been living off a trust fund. I recalled that she had no brothers or sisters, or anyone who might stand to inherit if she was out of the picture, even if her family had some money.
So if money wasn’t involved, why had she been murdered? And why at Holt’s, of all places?
I figured whoever did her in must have followed her to the store. Or maybe the killer knew where she was going.
Tony flashed in my mind. He probably knew. Courtney probably mentioned it to him.
Danielle might have known also. She knew who I was back at Courtney’s apartment, so Courtney obviously told her about my Facebook message.
What about that Mike Ivan guy? Tony had told me Mike had been giving her a hard time. Now I wondered if that was really true, or if Tony had said it just to throw suspicion off of himself. But if it were true, I had no way of knowing if Mike was still in L.A. Maybe he’d come to Vegas looking for her.
Maybe he’d found her.
One thing for sure was that whoever had done it had definitely wanted her dead. From the looks of all that blood I’d seen in the dressing room—which still creeped me out to think about it—I figured that she’d been stabbed. The murderer obviously didn’t care that lots of people—potential witnesses—were in the store, or that security cameras were humming away—or should have been.
Sounded like a desperate killer to me.
Or maybe a lucky one.
Or one who knew dozens of people were coming and going from the store, and no one really knew each other well enough to recognize someone who wasn’t supposed to be there.
Or someone who knew that the security cameras weren’t operational yet.
My head started to hurt. I surveyed the street on both sides, hoping to spot a Starbucks. No such luck. I continued on to the mall.
When I got back to the motel, I still had no idea who’d killed Courtney or why, no Delicious handbag, and no call from Marcie or Ty. Amber still wasn’t at the registration desk, which irked me to no end.
Jeez, I was just trying to do a good deed here. You’d think she could come to work so I could thank her.
I did, however, have a handful of shopping bags, courtesy of the fantastic stores I’d visited at the mall.
Yeah, okay, I knew my credit cards were screaming for relief, but how could I walk past all those gorgeous things and not buy something? I mean, in a way, it’s kind of rude to go into a shop, wear down the carpet, breath up the air, and leave fingerprints on the merchandise and not buy something.
I’d found a fantastic summer sweater—so fantastic, I’d bought two of them—a couple pairs of capris that cried out for coordinating sandals, and some fun-looking bracelets with matching earrings. I got a raincoat—yeah, I knew it was summer and I was in the desert—but it was on clearance. So, actually, it was an investment—along with the umbrella that went with it.
Up in my room, I put on my comfy clothes, and climbed into bed with my laptop.
If ever in my life I needed a shot of good luck, it was now. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, maybe Marcie and Sandy had been right. Maybe I should contact a psychic and find out what I could do to break this curse—not that I believed in it, of course. But something had to change and it was the easiest place to start.
I logged onto the Internet and searched for psychics in Vegas. Wow, there were tons of them.
Psychic readers, palm readers, aura readers, and crystal readers offered advice on love, career, and dreams. Others promised past life regression and astrological chart interpretation. Some would tell your past, present—which I’d think you wouldn’t need a psychic for—and future, as well as solve all your problems and provide a view into the mysteries of the universe.
All of this along with Google maps, business hours, payment methods—credit card and PayPal—appointment booking over the Internet, and monthly newsletters.
It was a business, after all.
Even though Marcie had thought this was a good idea, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I couldn’t see myself getting reliable advice from a woman who’d probably look like Cher performing “Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves.”
Unless she could provide me with the location of a Delicious handbag.
Maybe I’d think about it.
I grabbed my phone out of my purse and checked the screen. No messages. Hum . . . I wondered why Marcie hadn’t called—not that I’d given up on Ty calling—but she and I talked almost every day.
My brain clicked over to fashion, for some reason, and I decided to check out the fashion accessory company Courtney and Danielle ran. I was curious to see their line. Danielle seemed like a no-nonsense kind of gal. I wondered what her designs would look like.
I’d considered starting my own line of handbags but never really did it. Who knew? Maybe one day.
I typed every combination of words I could think of into every search engine I could find but didn’t come up with anything, other than the article I’d already read.
Guess Danielle had been right. It wasn’t much of a business.
Guess I was right, too. Courtney wasn’t bright enough to manage the company and this proved it. No Web site, no promo, no Internet presence at all. Not surprising the business hadn’t taken off.
I grabbed my phone and hit Marcie’s number. Her voicemail picked up. I left a message.
Since my search for Courtney and Danielle hadn’t turned up anything—and because I was really tired of the cops bugging me—I decided to try something else. I typed Mike Ivan’s name into the search box. I wasn’t sure what I expected to find—his name on a terrorist watch list would have been nice—but more like something—anything—that might indicate exactly how he was involved with Courtney.
Nothing came up.
I stared at the laptop keyboard. Not much was going my way tonight. Maybe I should go to Starbucks. Everybody who uses a laptop at Starbucks always looks as if things are going great.
With considerable mental effort, I ditched the idea of Starbucks. A mocha frappuccino—or two—would have me wired and up half the night.
Which might be okay if I weren’t here alone.
I could think of only one more way to get info on Courtney’s murder. I needed to talk to someone who knew her here in Vegas. Somebody who could give me some insight into her day-to-day life.
Tony Hubbard’s info wasn’t reliable, and Danielle’s only connection that I knew of was through business. Courtney must have had friends in Vegas—since she didn’t have sense enough to know when people didn’t like her—so I needed to find them.
Clutches and Curses Page 8
