Clutches and Curses

by Dorothy Howell

  Jack had given me that line before, but he’d never followed through. It made my toes curl again, like always.

  I finished my mocha frappuccino and went to my car. As soon as I got in, my cell phone rang. I figured it was Jack calling back, but my caller I.D. screen said Ty.

  Ty? Ty was calling? Finally?

  My heart took off, working faster than a cash register at a sample sale.

  Oh my God. What did he want? What would he say? Was he about to tell me to forget the whole we’re-moving-in-together thing? Or would he profess his undying love and insist we go curtain shopping for our new place?

  Where was Marcie at a time like this?

  “We need to talk,” Ty said when I answered.

  I couldn’t tell from his tone if he wanted a we-need-to-talk-because-I’m-breaking-up-with-you kind of talk, or a we-need-to-talk-because-it’s-too-important-to-say-over-the-phone kind of talk.

  I played it safe and said, “Okay.”

  “Good.” He sounded relieved. “I’ll swing by your place and pick you up in about an hour.”

  Okay, this was weird.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “My office.”

  His office is in downtown Los Angeles.

  My heart rate slowed down.

  “Didn’t you listen to the message I left you?” I asked.

  He paused. “Well . . . uh . . .”

  “I’m in Vegas,” I told him. I said it kind of loud.

  He didn’t respond.

  “I’ve been here for three days.” I shouted that.

  Still nothing.

  “You are the worst boyfriend in the history of boyfriends!” I screamed that. “Don’t ever, ever, ever call me again!”

  I hung up and started driving.

  There was nothing to do but go shopping. I headed for the Galleria Mall.

  This was my second trip to the Galleria—I really hadn’t done it justice the first time, concentrating as I was on finding a Delicious handbag—and I needed to give all the stores my undivided attention.

  Maybe that would help me get over that awful conversation with Ty.

  Hot weather called for beach attire and I found plenty of it at the stores in the Galleria. In Macy’s I bought three bathing suits. New bathing suits were useless, of course, without accessories, so I also got myself matching coverups, sandals, and totes.

  Standing in the dressing room, looking at myself in the mirror, I’d decided more emphasis on exercise would be good—not that I looked bad in my bathing suits, of course—but a workout more enjoyable than the monotonous grind of exercise machines at the gym would be fun.

  In-line skating came to mind. It seemed perfect. Firming my thighs as I glided along the bike path at the beach, the wind in my hair, the sparkling Pacific at my fingertips.

  I needed the right type of clothing, of course.

  I rushed onto the sales floor and picked up shorts, tank tops, and T-shirts in a beach-worthy pallet of colors. While ringing up my sale, the clerk and I spent several minutes discussing necklines—scoop, V, crew, turtle, boat—and which sleeve length looked best with each—long, three-quarter, short, cap—and I realized I didn’t have nearly enough of each. I hit the racks again.

  I left the mall feeling good about my new and improved exercise program. I vowed to get right on it as soon as I got back to L.A.—and as soon as I got some in-line skates. In the meantime, I figured it was okay to go ahead and wear the shorts and T-shirts.

  After hours at the Galleria Mall, I returned to the Culver Inn. I’d set a quick pace for myself in an effort to burn off my anger at Ty, and kept my energy up with a stop at Ben and Jerry’s for ice cream and a couple of mocha frappuccinos from Starbucks.

  Without Marcie here to talk me down, I could have done a lot worse.

  Yeah, okay, another credit card was now maxed out, but sometimes that’s what it takes to put things in perspective. Not that I’d come to terms with the whole Ty-didn’t-know-I-was-gone, what-am-I-going-to-do thing, but regardless, I was keeping the clothes.

  I gathered my shopping bags out of the trunk and made my way into the lobby of the Culver Inn. The desk clerk called to me—guess everyone here knew me on sight thanks to that whole I-got-Amber-fired thing.

  She pointed to a huge arrangement of flowers sitting on the desk.

  “These came for you,” she said.

  I put down my bags and opened the envelope almost hidden in the greenery. The card read: I’m sorry.

  No name. But I knew who they were from.

  Ty.

  A lot of women would probably be flattered to receive a gorgeous bouquet of flowers from a good-looking, well off, really hot man.

  Not me. Not if they were from Ty.

  I grabbed the arrangement and stuffed it into the trash can, then picked up my shopping bags and stomped over to the elevator. I jabbed the call button six times. While I waited, I fumed and stared at the ruined flowers.

  The elevator dinged. I rushed back to the trash can, pulled out the card, then got into the elevator.

  A noise distracted me from my laptop.

  I’d been thoroughly engrossed in plotting a search pattern for the Delicious handbag. Vegas teemed with shopping opportunities and I’d hit a few, but the mother lode lay on The Strip.

  The Fashion Show Mall, City Center, Caesars Palace Forum Shops, Planet Hollywood’s shops plus many more abounded with high-end merchandise. But these places weren’t for the casual shopper, or the faint of heart—or someone wearing uncomfortable shoes.

  I glanced at the clock on my night table. A little after one in the morning. Yeah, okay, I knew it was too late to be up when I had to go to work in the morning, but I couldn’t sleep.

  The noise sounded again. I realized it came from the hallway outside my room.

  I put my laptop aside and sat up.

  Ty flew into my head—which didn’t suit me. I’d spent the last seven hours—and maxed out a credit card—trying to forget about him.

  Was he outside? Had he dropped everything and rushed here to beg my forgiveness?

  Somehow, I doubted it.

  Another thought hit me: maybe motel guests were outside, the ones the oh-so-delightful desk clerk Whitley had claimed weren’t booked into a room up here. Well, I’d show her. I’d prove they were here and get Amber’s job back.

  I jumped off the bed and jerked my door open.

  A man stood in my doorway—tall, square shoulders, looming over me.

  Yikes!

  I hopped back to slam the door. He caught it before it latched and threw it open.

  “Not exactly the reception I’d hoped for,” he said.

  I gasped as I realized it was Jack Bishop.

  “What are you doing here?” I demanded. “You scared the crap out of me.”

  “You shouldn’t open your door without knowing who’s out there,” Jack said.

  “Thanks, that’s so helpful,” I told him.

  He stepped in and closed the door. “Is that any way to treat an invited guest?”

  “I don’t recall inviting you,” I said, though, honestly, I wasn’t sorry to see him—which is awful, I know, but there it was.

  “I’ve got the info you asked for.”

  “On Mike Ivan?” I asked, my heart rate finally slowing. “Already?”

  “When called upon, I can deliver,” Jack said, and his gaze dipped.

  I had on sweatpants.

  Jack didn’t seem to notice.

  I also had on a T-shirt and no bra.

  Jack definitely noticed.

  I yanked a sweatshirt out of my suitcase and pulled it on.

  He walked to the window and peeked out, then turned to me again.

  “Nice place,” Jack said, not bothering to hide his sarcasm. “Is this the best your boyfriend could do for his employees?”

  Just how Jack had found out I was in Vegas to help open a new Holt’s store and was staying at this particular Culver Inn, I didn’t know. Nor di
d I waste my breath to ask. Jack never gave away his sources.

  “I doubt Ty checked out the motel personally,” I said, then was annoyed with myself for defending him.

  “You could move to a better place,” Jack pointed out.

  I’d thought of that. But since Holt’s was picking up the tab and my funds were limited, I was stuck here.

  “Want something to drink?” I asked, opening the little refrigerator wedged under the TV. “I have soda and bottled water.”

  When Jack shook his head, I said, “We could go out and get something.”

  “I like it here,” he replied.

  So did I—which was really awful of me, I know. Ty was my boyfriend—my official boyfriend. We’d done the bedroom bop on two continents, numerous times, numerous ways. We were a couple.

  But Jack was here. I’d called, he’d dropped everything, and here he was. No ignored voicemail, no floral arrangement stand-in. Just him, here when I needed him. And Ty wasn’t.

  Still, Ty and I were officially a couple. I’m a stickler for things like that.

  It’s how I roll.

  Jack must have read my reluctance because he pulled out the desk chair and sat down.

  “So you’re a murder suspect again, huh?” he asked.

  How did he know these things? It’s so cool being a private detective.

  I hate my life.

  It wasn’t difficult to figure out how he knew most of it. I’d given him Courtney’s name; the Internet had done the rest. And, of course, he’d probably made a couple of logical assumptions—I am, after all, me.

  “What’s the story on Mike Ivan?” I asked, and sat down in a chair across the desk from him.

  “You first,” Jack said.

  “I knew Courtney in high school. She moved to Henderson and got hooked up with a guy named Tony Hubbard who’d been in prison,” I said.

  Jack made a little spinning motion with his hand. “Tell me something I don’t already know.”

  “Tony told me—”

  He sat forward. “You talked to Tony?”

  “I went to their apartment to—”

  “Alone?” He sounded kind of mad now.

  “I expected Courtney’s parents or friends would be there,” I said.

  “Stay away from Hubbard,” Jack said.

  “He left town, I think. He stole her TV and stereo, and disappeared,” I said. “Anyway, Tony told me this guy Mike Ivan had been looking for Courtney—but not in a good way. He’d come to Vegas trying to find her. Some problem from when she lived in L.A.”

  Jack just looked at me for a few minutes, like he was taking it all in, piecing it together.

  “Mike Ivan runs a number of businesses in Los Angeles,” he said.

  “Courtney, supposedly, ran a fashion accessory line,” I said. “Maybe that’s how they knew each other.”

  “Could be,” Jack agreed. “Ivan has money. He spreads it around.”

  “From what Tony said, I gather Courtney left L.A. rather suddenly. I wonder if there was bad blood between Mike and Courtney over money?” I asked. “Enough for him to murder her?”

  We were quiet for a moment, then I said, “It doesn’t make sense. If he murdered her, he’d never get his money back.”

  “Maybe he wanted to set an example,” Jack said.

  I got a weird feeling.

  “Everything I hear about Mike Ivan says that he’s clean. A legitimate businessman,” Jack said. “You know what ‘Ivan’ is short for?”

  My weird feeling got weirder.

  “Ivanov,” Jack said.

  “Is that Russian?” I asked. “As in the . . .”

  “The Russian mob.”

  Oh, crap.

  CHAPTER 13

  “He’s really hot looking,” Maya said. “Is he your boyfriend?”

  The breakfast buffet at the Culver Inn was in full swing as Maya and I stood in the corner admiring Jack Bishop as he sat at a table across the room. Somehow he made drinking coffee and eating breakfast look sexy.

  “Just a friend,” I told her.

  “Really?” She sounded as if she couldn’t believe it.

  I couldn’t blame her.

  Jack and I had shared a tense moment in my room last night when he’d gotten up to leave. He hesitated beside the bed. I did, too. Both of us were thinking the same thing—at least, that’s my take on it.

  But Ty may as well have been in the room, standing between us, because Jack left.

  That’s how he rolls.

  Even that’s hot.

  I hadn’t expected to see Jack here this morning. I didn’t know where he spent the night.

  Maybe it’s just as well.

  “Is he the guy who bought you the Louie Vuitton organizer?” Maya asked.

  “Ty bought it for me. He’s my official boyfriend,” I explained. “Ty’s a business executive. He looks so hot in his suits.”

  “Personally, I’m looking for something a little different in a boyfriend. I want to see him sweat, and I want to see him fix something,” Maya said. She nodded toward Jack. “Who’s this guy?”

  “Jack Bishop. He’s a private investigator,” I said. “He drove up from Los Angeles last night.”

  Maya cut her eyes to me. I knew what she was thinking—not that I blamed her, of course—and she asked, “Where’s Ty?”

  “In L.A. He’s very busy. Major responsibilities,” I said, and found myself defending him—again.

  “So Ty’s in L.A. and Jack is here,” Maya said. She shook her head. “Why aren’t you dating Jack?”

  Good question.

  I had no good answer.

  “Come over and meet him,” I said.

  Maya smoothed back her bangs and straightened her apron as Jack came to his feet and I introduced them.

  “Maya made the muffins,” I said. “Her own recipe. She’s a fabulous cook.”

  “I imagine you do a lot of things well,” Jack said.

  Maya blushed.

  “I’ve got to get to work,” I said.

  “Catch you later,” Jack said.

  Crossing the lobby, I glanced at the trash can. Ty’s flowers were gone, which made me mad, sad, disappointed, hurt—something, I don’t know what. Maybe all of those things.

  I got in my car and drove to Holt’s.

  If I was late, I wondered if Fay might have the security guard at the door lock me out. Not that it would be so bad to miss work, especially with Jack in town—which was awful of me, I know—but I needed the day’s pay.

  I joined the crowd of employees who’d gathered around the assignment flip chart on the easel at the front of the store.

  “Check your assignment, okay, then clock in, then go to the training room, okay?” Fay said, her nasal voice grating on my nerves a little more than usual this morning. “After the meeting, go to your assigned department, okay? Everybody got that?”

  Nobody said they didn’t get it, but Fay started over anyway.

  I hate my life.

  But maybe a meeting wouldn’t be so bad this morning, I decided as I worked my way to the assignment easel. I had a lot to think about.

  “OMG!” Taylor exclaimed as she bounced on her toes beside me. “We’re both in housewares! That’s SC!”

  “Yeah, so cool,” I said, but with none of the excitement she displayed.

  I don’t think she noticed.

  I clocked in, then found a seat in the last row—my customary spot for any type of meeting—in the training room. Employees filled the chairs, forming a wall of bodies in front of me, cutting off my view of the front of the room. Perfect. I could get a lot of thinking done—or take a nap—whichever came first.

  Preston stepped up and addressed the employees, expressing concern over the unfortunate situation that had occurred—I’m pretty sure he meant Courtney’s murder—thanking them for their understanding, their patience, their continued employment under difficult circumstances. His words turned to blah, blah, blah, and I drifted off.

  T
he more I learned about Courtney’s murder, the less sense any of it made. How could quiet, unassuming, not-so-bright Courtney have gotten hooked up with so many bad people? Tony Hubbard, a convicted felon, was bad enough, but the Russian mob?

  Jack had told me that from everything he’d learned, this Mike Ivan guy ran legitimate businesses. Maybe he was trying to distance himself from his roots—if my family was in the Russian mob and I wanted to go legit, I’d change my name, too.

  But maybe he’d changed it to evade law enforcement and cover his tracks to some degree. That made sense.

  Yet it didn’t explain why the Russian mob, operating on a global scale, would be interested in a small, poorly run fashion accessory business like Courtney’s.

  Danielle floated into my mind. She’d probably know what the deal was between Courtney and Mike. I’d call her tonight and see—

  “Haley? Haley?”

  Preston’s voice interrupted my thoughts, jarring me back to reality.

  “Where are you, Haley?” he called.

  I leaned sideways and saw him at the front of the room, squinting his eyes, scanning the crowd. I gave him a little wave.

  “There she is,” he announced, as if he’d just discovered life on Mars. “Stand up, Haley, stand up.”

  Reluctantly, I rose from my chair.

  “Let’s all give her a round of applause,” Preston declared. He clapped his hands together. The employees turned to me and joined in.

  Okay, this was kind of nice. I’d discovered a few dead bodies before—long story—but I’d never been recognized for my quick actions and on-the-scene leadership.

  Effortlessly I channeled my mother’s I-know-I’m-better-than-you-but-I-can-appear-humble smile along with her I’m-being-nice-because-it’s-expected beauty queen wave.

  “Haley has assured me you can all count on her,” Preston said.

  I guess that meant everyone in the store would know who to turn to if another dead body showed up. Not the best way to end a motivational meeting, to my way of thinking, but this was Preston’s show.

  “Okay, that’s it. Thanks for your hard work,” he said, which was our cue to get to work.

  We filed out of the training room and, as I took the long way to the housewares department, Cliff wandered over.