Clutches and Curses

by Dorothy Howell

  “Hey, Dana, how’s it going?” Cliff said, leaning on my open window.

  “The police found your car?” I asked.

  “No way, man. Like, I don’t think they’re even looking,” he said.

  “I found it,” I said.

  “Whoa, dude.” Cliff looked totally confused. “What?”

  “It’s parked in front of the Pizza Hut,” I said.

  “No way.” He gazed across the parking lot, then at me again. “How’d it get there?”

  I didn’t need Madam CeeCee to figure this one out.

  “Did you drive over for lunch?” I asked. “Then maybe forgot you drove, and walked back?”

  “Wow, that is so cool. That is so Dana,” Cliff declared, smiling and nodding his head. He turned to his friends still cowering beside the store. “Hey, dudes, come here! You gotta meet Dana!”

  “Some other time,” I said quickly, and drove away.

  Jeez, why couldn’t I get beamed into another life?

  It was a Fendi evening. Definitely a Fendi evening.

  After finishing my shift at Holt’s, I ran by the Culver Inn and changed into black pants and sweater—always classics—and grabbed my Fendi bag to complete the be-jealous-of-me look I was going for. Nothing less than a Fendi would do tonight. I was going to the meeting of the handbag club and I knew every woman there would bring her best.

  Maya had told me the club met at a boutique in a shopping center near the Green Valley Resort and Casino, just a few miles from the Culver Inn. She catered the event. It would have been more fun if we could have gone together. But I was glad she had the work, especially since it looked as if she might lose her job catering the breakfast buffet, if that little weasel Bradley got his way.

  I still hate him.

  I drove past the resort and casino and into the shopping center parking lot. The District, as it was called, featured wide promenades with benches, lush landscaping, and trees with white lights that fronted all sorts of shops. There were restaurants and bars, and a park with a carousel.

  I followed a group of well-dressed women carrying fabulous handbags to a boutique called Fashion Utopia. The window was artfully filled with a wide variety of well-known designer purses, plus gorgeous bags I’d never seen before.

  My heart rate skyrocketed.

  Where was Marcie at a time like this? She would so love this place. I’d have to tell her all about it. Maybe, when her ankle got better, we could come back together.

  I hoisted my Fendi higher and went inside.

  About two dozen white folding chairs had been squeezed into the center of the store, surrounded by displays of jewelry, shawls, hats, gloves, wallets, totes, handbags, and just about every other fashion accessory you could imagine. Most of the chairs were occupied. Another half dozen or so women were on their feet, working the room.

  Everyone was talking and laughing. Everybody had a glass of wine. Spirits were high.

  Immediately I spied a Marc Jacobs, a Betsey Johnson, two Michael Kors, an Isabella Fiore, two—no three—Pradas. Gorgeous bags everywhere.

  My knees felt weak. Oh my God. What if someone here had a Delicious bag? I’d faint for sure.

  At the counter near the cash register, I spotted Maya putting the finishing touches on the refreshments. No canned Cheez-Whiz and Ritz crackers for this group. Trays of shrimp, crab, beef, puffed pastries, cheeses, all sorts of sauces beautifully presented. Impressive. Way beyond the offerings at the Culver Inn breakfast buffet. Maya had a great culinary future—if she got the money she needed to see it through.

  “Welcome, welcome!”

  A fiftyish woman with platinum blond hair, a deep suntan, white jumpsuit, and gold shoes came at me, arms open.

  “I see a new face!” she declared. “I’m Poppy!”

  My mom would have loved her—or maybe hated her. I’m not sure. It’s hard to predict which way women will go sometimes.

  I introduced myself.

  “Ladies? Ladies?” Poppy called. The room quieted and everyone turned to us. Poppy gestured at me as if I were a prize on a game show, and said, “This is Haley!”

  All the women called out a greeting or raised a wine glass in my direction.

  “Majesta is our guest artisan tonight,” Poppy said, pointing at a woman across the room.

  Majesta—whom I’m pretty sure made up her own name—was swathed in a long purple print skirt and a massive shawl. She dipped her chin demurely. She had an exotic look to her—as an artisan would, I suppose.

  “These are her bags. She makes them by hand in her studio. All of them are original works of art,” Poppy declared, pointing to the bags arranged at the front of the room. “Aren’t they breathtaking!”

  Heads bobbed in agreement around the room.

  Oh, yeah, they were gorgeous, all right. Floral and geometric patterns in fabrics that, even from across the room, I could see were exquisite.

  My palms started to itch. I absolutely had to see the linings.

  “Your bags are absolutely fantastic,” I agreed.

  Majesta dipped her head, graciously accepting my compliment.

  “She’s presenting at the handbag convention! All the major department stores want to buy her collection,” Poppy exclaimed, then wagged her finger. “But nooo. We’re not going to let her go commercial with these beautiful bags, now are we, ladies!”

  The women paused in their wine sipping to nod in agreement.

  “You have a complete collection to show at the handbag convention? That’s a major accomplishment,” I said.

  Danielle and Courtney popped into my mind. They’d surely put hours and hours of work into their line, even though it had come to nothing.

  “I have friends who had a fashion accessory line,” I said, “but just couldn’t make it work.”

  “Did you hear that, ladies? Haley has friends with an accessory line,” Poppy called out. “Maybe we can get them here for our next meeting!”

  Oh, crap. Why had I referred to Danielle as my friend—I couldn’t even get her to return my phone calls. And I certainly didn’t want to mention that her business partner was dead. That might spoil the mood.

  “Who is she?” a woman with a Chanel clutch asked.

  “Maybe we know her,” called a woman carrying a Kate Spade.

  Every face turned to me, waiting. Jeez, what could I do?

  I leaned close to Poppy and lowered my voice. “Her name is Danielle Shepherd. Her partner is—was—Courtney Collins, and she was—”

  “Courtney Collins?” Poppy shrieked.

  The room fell into a stunned silence. Nobody moved. Every eye in the room shifted to me.

  Why had everybody stopped talking? Why were they all staring at me? Yeah, okay, bringing up someone who’d been murdered was kind of bad, but it wasn’t like I’d done something unforgivable, like mistaken a Gucci for a Prada. And I was carrying a Fendi, for God’s sake.

  A woman seated in the back row surged to her feet, tipping over her chair, and let out a full-throated, wild-animal, Discovery Channel–worthy scream. She pushed aside a display of jewelry, sending it flying through the air, knocked over a rack of wallets, and bolted out the door.

  Oh, crap.

  CHAPTER 20

  “It’s not your fault,” the woman next to me said quietly. “Not really.”

  We were both on our hands and knees picking up the zillion pieces of jewelry strewn across the floor, and she was being nice, which I appreciated. But the mood of the handbag club meeting had been shattered. Behind us, Poppy was doing her best to rejuvenate the group. They were having none of it.

  “I’m Rosalyn Chase,” the woman said, offering a kind smile. She looked to be in her fifties, maybe, well dressed with short dark hair.

  “Who was that woman?” I asked.

  “Valerie Wagner. She hasn’t been herself in a long time,” Rosalyn said quietly. “I was surprised to see her here tonight after . . . everything.”

  I guessed everything had something to
do with Courtney.

  “She was a friend of—”

  “Let’s take this jewelry to the stock room,” Rosalyn said.

  She’d cut me off before I could finish my sentence, so I figured it was for the best. I rolled with it.

  The beaded necklaces and bracelets were hopelessly tangled, so we gathered them as best we could. Maya gave me a what-the-hell-happened eyebrow bob from her station by the refreshments, and I gave her a beats-the-hell-out-of-me bob in return. I felt dozens of hot gazes on me as I followed Rosalyn into the stock room at the back of the store.

  The tiny area was crammed with shelves and racks loaded with merchandise. A desk sat in a corner. The light was dim and the room smelled sort of musty. I dumped the tangle of jewelry on a shelf and Rosalyn did the same. She pushed the door closed.

  I could really go for a bag of Oreos right now.

  “Poppy and her big mouth,” Rosalyn said, and shook her head. “She should have known better than to blurt out Courtney’s name with Valerie in the room.”

  Or a Snickers bar.

  “Valerie owns a little fabric shop near here. Courtney came in frequently, buying things for the fashion accessory line she and Danielle ran. They became friends,” Rosalyn said. “Valerie introduced Courtney to her son, Scott. They started dating.”

  Maybe two Snickers bars.

  Wait. Hang on a second.

  “Scott and Courtney dated?” I asked.

  Jeez, I really need to pay attention to things.

  “Quite the whirlwind romance from what Valerie told us at the club meetings.” Rosalyn smiled at the memory. “Valerie invited Courtney to bring her accessory line to a meeting. We were all very impressed. Stunning designs. Exceptional workmanship. It was art, more than fashion.”

  Okay, that seemed weird.

  “Danielle didn’t bring the collection?” I asked.

  Rosalyn shook her head. “I met Danielle later at their workroom. The girls had been selling a few items separately to test the waters, so to speak, and to bring in some money until the collection was completed. I offered to buy some pieces, but Courtney insisted they weren’t ready yet. They certainly looked ready to me, though.”

  I remembered how I’d seen so many different colors of fabric scattered across the workroom they’d used. I guessed Danielle had finally decided in which direction she should take the collection. I wondered why Courtney had insisted on holding it back.

  “Danielle saw things differently,” Rosalyn said. “She contacted me a few days later and gave me a number of items on consignment. I took them to Laughlin. My sister lives there and manages a shop. She put them in her display window and they sold immediately.”

  “So what happened between Valerie and Courtney?” I asked.

  “I don’t know why, but Courtney and Scott broke up,” Rosalyn said. She paused and her features saddened. “Apparently, Scott was so devastated he enlisted in the marines to get away. He was killed in Iraq.”

  “Oh, crap . . . ,” I muttered.

  No wonder Valerie had freaked out when Poppy had mentioned Courtney’s name.

  The stock room door opened and Maya slipped inside.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  The fun had definitely gone out of the handbag club meeting for me.

  “I think I’ll go,” I said.

  Maya nodded sympathetically. She understood, as an almost-best-friend would.

  “I’ll walk out with you,” Rosalyn said.

  We left through the rear door that led to the service alley behind the shops. It was dark back there, with just a few security lamps to light our way.

  I’d learned the identity of Courtney’s boyfriend before Tony, but no way was he a murder suspect. Maybe, though, their breakup and Scott’s death explained why Courtney had taken up with Tony. Maybe it was a rebound thing.

  “Has Danielle told you what she plans to do with their stock on hand?” Rosalyn asked.

  I didn’t want to admit that I hardly knew Danielle, that I couldn’t get her to return my calls, or that I hadn’t even known there was stock on hand, presumably riding around in the back of Danielle’s van along with a TV that may or may not have belonged to Courtney.

  “I don’t think she’s decided yet,” I said.

  “I’d love to buy it from her,” Rosalyn said as we turned the corner of the building. “My sister could sell it in her store easily.”

  My spirits lifted a little, thinking this would be a bit of good luck Danielle could surely stand.

  “I’ll give her a call,” Rosalyn said, “see if she’s interested.”

  “I’ll mention it to her, too,” I offered. “Maybe I could finally see the collection.”

  “You’ve never seen it?” Rosalyn asked, slipping into handbag-lover mode. “It’s gorgeous. I’ve got a couple of items at my house that I was planning to take down to my sister in a week or so. Why don’t you come by?”

  “Great,” I said.

  We stopped in front of a greeting card shop. Couples strolled and sat on benches, kids ran around, music floated out from a nearby bar. I pulled out my cell phone and input her address and number. She took my cell number.

  “How about tomorrow after work?” I asked.

  “Maybe Danielle can make it then, too,” Rosalyn said.

  We headed for the parking lot. Just as we reached the curb, a Buick sedan shot out of a space and screeched to a halt in front of us. Valerie glared at us out the driver’s side window. She looked kind of wild eyed, kind of crazy. Her face was wet with tears.

  “Shame on the both of you! Shame on you!”

  She pointed her finger at us, and for a minute I was afraid she might put yet another curse on me.

  “How dare you be friends with that Courtney! How dare you! After what she did!” Valerie shook her fist. “I’m glad she’s dead. I hope she suffered! And I hope you suffer, too!”

  Valerie hit the gas. The Buick lurched forward, nearly clipping an SUV, and sped out of sight.

  Something jarred me awake. Sort of.

  One eye opened just enough to see feeble rays of sunlight seeping in around the edges of my room’s curtains. I saw nothing that motivated me to open the other eye.

  My ears were already on full alert, though, and I realized my phone was ringing. Not the pleasant, come-hither tone of my cell phone. My room phone.

  I rolled over, noted the display on my alarm clock read 5:47, and grabbed the phone. I meant to say hello, but nothing came out.

  “Miss Randolph, this is Melanie at the front desk,” an entirely too perky woman said.

  I wanted to say what-the-heck-do-you-want, but still, nothing came out.

  “Could you please come down here right away?” she asked.

  I intended to say no-way-in-hell, but that didn’t come out, either.

  “Miss Randolph?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be there,” I managed, then hung up.

  I didn’t jump out of bed, of course. This hour of the morning was definitely too early for me.

  It didn’t help that I’d been up late last night. Marcie had called and we’d talked about what we’d been up to. Her foot was better but not party or shopping ready.

  It had taken over two hours to cover everything.

  I’d called Danielle last night, too. I thought she’d be thrilled to hear that Rosalyn was interested in buying more of her accessories for her sister’s shop in Laughlin, thereby relieving some of Danielle’s financial stress. But, for the fifth time, all I’d gotten was Danielle’s voice mail, which was starting to annoy me. I’d left the message about going to Rosalyn’s today after work. Maybe she’d get the message and show up.

  I pushed myself up and found my cell phone—the warmest thing I’d had in bed with me in a while—under the sheet beside me. I checked for messages.

  Nothing from Ty.

  Nothing from Madam CeeCee.

  Nothing from Danielle.

  Nothing from anybody.

  Jeez, I used to be p
opular. What happened?

  Despite the desk clerk’s insistence that I go there immediately, I took my time in the shower and getting dressed. I mean, what could be so important at this hour of the morning? If the motel had been on fire, surely she would have mentioned it.

  When I got to the lobby, Melanie stood behind the registration desk, looking awfully perky and way too cheerful for this hour of the morning, especially given the hideous Culver Inn brown, orange, and green uniform she wore.

  Obviously, she was new.

  “Yes, Miss Randolph, good morning,” she said, when I introduced myself. Her smile broadened. “There’s been a little mix-up.”

  Okay, so this must be something good. And not a minute too soon. I could stand for my luck to turn around. Maybe I wouldn’t even need Madam CeeCee.

  “It’s come to the attention of management that you’re not using one of the rooms blocked off for the Holt’s Corporation.” Melanie’s smile stretched even farther across her face. “So we’ve charged your credit card for the days you’ve stayed with us.”

  Yeah, okay, it was early. Way early. Obviously, my brain hadn’t had its morning chocolate–caffeine combo fix, so I must have misunderstood.

  “You . . . what?”

  Melanie kept smiling and nodding. “That’s right. Eight hundred dollars, approximately.”

  “Eight hundred dollars?”

  “Approximately.”

  “You charged eight hundred dollars on my credit card?”

  I’m pretty sure I screamed that.

  “How could you have done that without asking me?”

  I’m positive I screamed that.

  Melanie kept smiling. “Well, that is the purpose of giving us your credit card upon check-in.”

  Oh my God. Oh my God. I couldn’t believe this. Eight hundred bucks—approximately—on my credit card? That’s all the available credit I had left. I’d maxed out my other cards shopping and buying that new tire. Now I had nothing left.

  What if I had an emergency? What if my car broke down? What if I got sick and had to go to the hospital?

  How was I going to buy purses at the handbag convention?