Clutches and Curses

by Dorothy Howell

  “Yes, I’m here,” I managed to say.

  “With your permission, I’ll e-mail you a complete itinerary,” Rona said. “January isn’t so far off, after all.”

  “January?”

  “Yes. The Shopping Festival begins in January. Your Mr. Cameron seems to be a long-term planner,” Rona said. “Please contact me with questions at any time.”

  “Okay, thanks,” I said.

  I hung up, stunned. Ty had planned a month-long shopping trip for us to Dubai? Wow. Just the two of us, together, for all that time? I could hardly take it in.

  Only—

  Rona hadn’t said anything about Ty going. Just me.

  But surely he’d go.

  Wouldn’t he?

  CHAPTER 18

  Improving oneself always involved risk. I’m pretty sure I read that somewhere or maybe I heard it in one of my classes. I don’t know. I usually drifted off in class. But I couldn’t disagree with the statement.

  I lay on my bed in the Culver Inn, lights off, television on with the sound turned so low I could barely hear it. The History Channel played what appeared to be a show on thimbles. Honestly, those folks can fill an hour with just about anything.

  Improvement involved risk because you had to give up something to get something, I seemed to recall someone saying. That’s just the way it was. Yet you could never know at the outset if it would work, if the risk would be worth it.

  If you wanted to lose weight, you had to give up food. If you wanted a better job, you had to give up the one you had.

  Jeez, that sounded like Taylor’s reverse world.

  I flipped to the Food Network. An overweight woman was frying what appeared to be a pan of butter.

  Ty had offered to pay my tuition and school expenses. He wanted me to go to school full time. Quit my job. College wasn’t my favorite thing, but maybe if I went full time I’d like it. Maybe if I knew I could knock it out, get it over with quickly, I’d enjoy it. It was my goal, after all, to get a great job doing something, someplace, where everybody had to do what I said, while I wore great fabulous clothes and carried fantastic handbags.

  But that would mean giving up my life as I knew it. My independence. My freedom to come and go as I pleased.

  I’d hardly die a thousand deaths if I never set foot inside another Holt’s store, so quitting my job wasn’t a huge deal. But the money I earned from it—such as it was—was mine. All mine. I didn’t have to answer to anyone. I could spend it—or not—as I saw fit.

  What would it be like to depend on Ty for everything? Maybe not so bad, I decided, as I flipped to the Discovery Channel. He’d made all sorts of fabulous offers. The beach house. The Dubai trip—which was a huge surprise. Maybe the kind of surprise I could expect from him often?

  Then, of course, there was the money thing.

  My bank account would soon be in full-on cardiac arrest. My credit cards needed resuscitating. Not to mention the student loans I would eventually have to repay. Ty could remedy my financial situation.

  But did I want to be a resident in that reverse world?

  Maybe a psychic could help me decide. I mean, really, another opinion couldn’t hurt.

  I hauled my laptop into the bed with me and logged on to the Internet.

  After my trip to the air force base with Cliff, there seemed no doubt left that I had actually been cursed. I couldn’t fight it anymore. I needed to find a way to break the curse—and maybe gain some insight into my future at the same time.

  I found the psychic reading sites I’d checked out before and decided I’d give Madam CeeCee a try. No real reason, except that her Web page didn’t freak me out quite as much as the others. I punched her phone number into my cell phone and—

  Voices in the hallway. A door closing.

  I scrambled out of the bed and yanked open my door. Damn. Nobody in the hallway.

  How the heck did I keep missing them? Were they some sort of phantom guests?

  I went back inside and locked the door, then glanced at my bedside clock. A little after one. They were in early tonight. Three o’clock was their usual hour to call it quits at whatever they were doing that kept them out this late.

  Another thought hit me. All along, I’d assumed I’d heard them coming in for the night. But maybe, instead, they were leaving.

  Who went out at three o’clock—or one o’clock—in the morning from a second-rate motel in Henderson?

  If I’d been anywhere but here in Vegas, I’d have wondered if something illegal was going on with the guests in the room across the hall. But nothing was illegal in Vegas. Gambling, prostitution, topless bars, drinking in public—everything went. The town wasn’t called Sin City for nothing.

  I walked to the window and pulled back the curtain.

  A few lamps burned in the deserted pool area and at the windows on the opposite side of the motel. Two security lights in the maintenance area cast the storage shed and parking area in shadows. I made out the dark outline of a pickup truck.

  Okay, that was weird. Why would a pickup be parked there now? The charming and always delightful Whitley at the registration desk had told me no maintenance workers were on duty after nine.

  But maybe the truck had been parked there for a while. With the view my room offered, I didn’t look outside all that often.

  Still, it was odd. I shut down my laptop and crawled into bed.

  Maybe Madam CeeCee could explain it.

  The pickup was gone.

  As soon as I rolled out of bed the next morning, I looked out the window and saw that the area around the maintenance shed was empty. I had no idea what—if anything—that meant.

  I showered, did my hair and makeup, got dressed, and went downstairs to the breakfast buffet, expecting this day to be just like all the others I’d spent in Henderson. It wasn’t.

  Maya was backed up against the kitchen door and some guy was in her face, giving her hell about something. She just stood there and took it.

  No way was I going to stand by and do nothing.

  I strode through the tables—most of the diners had the good grace not to stare—and stepped between them.

  “Excuse me,” I said, ignoring the guy. “These muffins are delicious. Can I get another chocolate one?”

  The guy stopped talking. Maya didn’t move. She seemed to be held in place by some cosmic force radiating from him.

  I put him at late twenties, shorter than me—which, I think, explained a lot—thin, average looking, dressed in an equally average-looking shirt and tie. His jaw was set and his stance screamed I-have-a-little-power-and-I’m-going-to-ruin-lives-just-because-I-can.

  I touched Maya’s arm. “Are there more muffins in the kitchen?”

  She seemed to snap out of it, finally. “Oh, yes. I’ll get some.”

  Maya turned to leave but the guy put his finger in her face.

  “You just remember what I told you,” he said, then whipped around and stalked away.

  I wanted to go after him and mess him over—I don’t know how, exactly—but I figured Maya needed me more.

  I hustled her inside the kitchen. She collapsed onto the stool, planted her elbows on the cold, hard, stainless-steel countertop, and buried her face in her hands.

  “Who was that jackass?” I demanded.

  Seeing her this upset, I was tempted again to go after him. But then I realized—oh my God—Maya was crying.

  Oh, crap.

  I don’t do crying well. I never know what to say. Really, my personal skills in highly emotional situations aren’t the best.

  Believe me, I’m the last person you want steadying you on your wedding day.

  “That was Bradley,” Maya sobbed, wiping her tears with the backs of her hands.

  “Bradley Pennington? The guy who runs this place? That Bradley?” I asked.

  I hadn’t liked him when I’d heard Maya and Amber talk about him. After seeing him in action, I really didn’t like him.

  “He wants to fire m
e,” she said, swiping her palm over her wet cheeks.

  “Fire you?”

  Maya gulped hard. “This is what he does. When he wants to get rid of you, he starts complaining about your work.”

  I grabbed a handful of napkins from the storage bin on the counter and gave them to her.

  “But your buffet is terrific,” I said.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Maya said, dabbing at her eyes. “I’ve seen him do this a dozen times. He’ll make things up, give you a hard time, then fire you. The turnover in this place is unbelievable. It’s almost like he doesn’t want anybody to work here very long.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” I said.

  Maya drew in a ragged breath. “I knew this would happen. I knew it was just a matter of time.”

  “There must be somebody you can complain to,” I said, but I knew there wasn’t. The Culver Inn was family owned. Nobody was going to listen to a mere employee—let alone the breakfast buffet caterer.

  “How am I going to pay for my classes?” Fresh tears rolled down Maya’s face. “How am I going to get my degree? Start my own business? How am I going to live?”

  Finally, my recessive be-compassionate-in-an-emotional-crisis gene kicked in and I put my arm around her shoulders. She leaned against me and cried harder.

  Damn that little Bradley creep, I thought. Somehow, I was going to find a way to screw him over.

  “No cell phones on the sales floor, okay?” Fay told me.

  I was in men’s underwear—the department—sticking bags of white athletic socks on metal display pegs.

  And I was in no mood.

  I looked up from the address book on my cell phone, which I’d been scrolling through.

  “The store isn’t open yet, okay?” I barked back. “In case you hadn’t noticed, okay?”

  “You’re supposed to be working,” Fay said.

  “And so are you.” I pointed to the three U-boats loaded down with unopened boxes sitting in the aisle. “Why don’t you go over there and unpack some of those?”

  “I don’t like your attitude, okay?” Fay said. “I’m going to have to note that in your personnel file.”

  And the next time I sleep with the owner of the entire Holt’s company, I’m going to tell him to fire you!

  Damn. I wished I could have said that out loud.

  I gave her double stink-eye as she walked away.

  “You tell her, Haley,” the guy stocking boxers in the next aisle said. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to tell you. There’s an indoor gun range on Tropicana. It would be way cool to go.”

  I didn’t disagree.

  I’d been in a crappy mood since I’d left the Culver Inn this morning, and being at Holt’s hadn’t helped.

  Imagine that.

  Maya had pulled herself together enough to tend to the breakfast buffet, but I could see that her spirit was broken, her dream crushed, her future in jeopardy.

  No way would she get referral business for the other Culver Inn motels in the chain now that Bradley was winding up to fire her. She’d be lucky to scrape together enough money to pay for her fall classes.

  I shoved three more packages of athletic socks onto a peg and grabbed more out of the box.

  I hated that for her. Maya worked hard. She had a plan, a goal. She knew what she wanted to do with her life. I admired that about her.

  But, it seemed, she wasn’t getting any help.

  I dropped down onto the floor in front of the sock display. I’d exhausted myself with my anger toward that little twerp Bradley.

  Jeez, what kind of family business allowed someone like him to run roughshod over decent, hard-working employees? Ty flashed in my head and a wave of guilt nearly knocked the breath out of me.

  Ty wanted to buy me a beach house, take over my bills, pay for everything, send me on an international month-long shopping spree.

  And Maya had nobody.

  CHAPTER 19

  At lunch time, I got in my car and headed down Valle Verde Road looking for a place to eat. I didn’t want to eat in the Holt’s breakroom, fearing I might actually take out Fay after the run-in we’d had in men’s underwear this morning, nor did I want to get caught up in idle chatter and gossip with the other employees.

  Almost everyone in the store had gone out of their way to tell me about fun and exciting things I could do while I was in Vegas, but, honestly, I was in no mood for that sort of thing. Right now, only a BFF should be forced to put up with me, or an official boyfriend—and I had neither immediately available.

  I spotted a Burger King, hit the drive-through, and found a spot to park where I could eat my lunch in peace. Generally, a burger wasn’t a stress-relieving food, but I followed it up with a chocolate milkshake, so that helped.

  Now, I had calls to make.

  The first was to Madam CeeCee, the all-knowing—and hopefully all-telling—psychic who would advise me on breaking the curse put on me by that freaky old lady in the Santa Clarita Holt’s store. I hoped Madam CeeCee’s powers crossed state lines.

  I scrolled through the address book in my cell phone and punched in her number. It rang three times, and her voicemail picked up.

  Okay, that was weird. Shouldn’t she have known I was calling? She was a psychic, wasn’t she?

  I left a message and my call-back number.

  For a few minutes, I watched the traffic whizzing past as I sucked down the last of my shake and debated my next call. I needed information on Danielle Shepherd. She was the only link I had to Courtney’s before-Tony boyfriend, a guy who might—or might not—make a viable murder suspect. I wouldn’t know until I found out who he was and talked to him.

  Danielle still hadn’t returned my calls, but looking at it logically—something I usually preferred not to do—that meant nothing. She barely knew me, she had business and financial problems to solve, plus a funeral to plan.

  I probably could have let it go and found some other way to learn the identity of Courtney’s mystery boyfriend, but that whole whose-TV-was-in-Danielle’s-van thing bothered me.

  I needed more info on Danielle.

  Jack would be the obvious guy to ask. He was already up to speed on the case.

  Plus, he was way hot.

  I knew he’d help, if I asked.

  Plus, he was way hot.

  But Jack had actual cases to work—the kind that paid money. Plus, he was way hot—and I had a boyfriend who wanted me to move in with him.

  I hate my life.

  I scrolled through my address book and punched in the number for Detective Shuman of the LAPD. Shuman and I had history. Nothing romantic. Our relationship was strictly business. But still.

  “Shuman.”

  He answered rushed. All detectives sounded rushed, in my experience. I think they were trained that way at the academy so people would think they were doing more than they really were.

  Maybe I should try that at work.

  “How’s it going?” I asked.

  “Hang on.”

  I heard noise in the background, the dull roar of too many voices in too small a space. A restaurant, maybe. It dimmed, then stopped.

  I imagined Shuman outside on the street wearing a shirt-tie-sport coat combo that didn’t quite blend because he’d picked them out himself. Dark hair blowing in the gentle Southern California breeze. Handsome.

  “What’s new, Haley?”

  Shuman sounded friendly now, relaxed.

  “Murder,” I said.

  “I asked what was new?” he said, and chuckled.

  Some—okay, most—of our history involved murder investigations. We’d had our ups and downs—yeah, okay, mostly because of me—but we’d gotten over our problems.

  “I need some background on a woman named Danielle Shepherd,” I said. “Can you help me out?”

  Shuman didn’t answer right away. I pictured him pacing the street, then stopping suddenly.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “Vegas.”

&n
bsp; “Out of my jurisdiction.”

  “Maybe not,” I said. “Mike Ivan, as in Ivanov, as in the Russian mob in L.A. He’s involved.”

  Shuman was silent.

  “Maybe,” I added.

  Jack had said Mike Ivan ran legitimate businesses, and maybe that was true. But those guys were experts at hiding their illegal activities behind a maze of corporations and offshore accounts.

  At least, that’s how they did it on TV.

  I felt bad for throwing Mike in front of the LAPD bus, so to speak, but they, along with the FBI, DEA, Homeland Security, and most other branches of federal law enforcement probably already had him on their radar.

  And if Jack had been misinformed about Mike and he was involved in Courtney’s murder, I wanted Shuman to have the info first. I figured it couldn’t do his career—and his willingness to help me in the future, of course—any harm.

  “Send me a text with what you’ve got,” Shuman said. He was in big-time cop mode now.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  He didn’t answer, just hung up. I imagined him frowning his cop frown—which was kind of hot—and heading back into the restaurant.

  I spent a few minutes texting him everything I knew, then drove back to Holt’s. I turned into the parking lot and spotted Cliff at the corner of the building having a smoke with two guys who appeared to be doofing their way through life, much like Cliff.

  The Nevada chapter of the ufology club, obviously.

  Crossing the wide parking lot on foot in the blazing mid-day desert heat was preferable to having to listen to the latest on the alien invasion of Vegas—jeez, what’s happened to my life?—so I circled the lot with the intention of finding a spot as far away from those guys as I could. As I cruised past the Pizza Hut, I spotted a banged-up white Ford Taurus parked near the door.

  I hit the brakes, jumped out, and peered inside.

  Worn upholstery. Fast-food bags. Empty drink cups.

  Oh my God, this was Cliff’s car.

  I got into my Honda, crossed the parking lot, and rolled up beside Cliff and his friends.

  I buzzed down my window. “Hey, Cliff?”

  He looked up, took a few second to react, then ambled over. The guys with him, Eric and Dwayne, I presumed, hung back, watching me as if I might beam up at any second.