Clutches and Curses

by Dorothy Howell

  As I headed for the employee breakroom, I noticed two guys in the Juniors clothing department putting up framed posters of great-looking models wearing fantastic outfits, none of which would ever be found in the store.

  Holt’s was not first on anyone’s high-fashion list.

  Still, something about one of the posters looked familiar. I stopped and looked at the clothing. No, definitely not the clothing—

  Oh my God. It was that girl.

  I smacked myself on the forehead as I recognized the model in the poster. She was that girl who used to work at the Holt’s store in Santa Clarita—I can never remember her name—the one who used to stink up the breakroom heating those frozen diet meals in the microwave. She lost like eighty pounds or something—so I hate her, of course—and she’d gone blonde and ditched her glasses. She’d quit her job at Holt’s—so I really hated her then, of course—and, last I’d heard, was trying to get signed with a modeling agent.

  Wow, she’d done it. She’d really done it.

  I hate my life.

  And I still hate her, of course.

  Just as I stowed my handbag—a Michael Kors satchel—and punched in, Preston barreled through the breakroom door. His cheeks were kind of pink and beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.

  Not a good look.

  “Haley? Haley?” he called, even though he was staring straight at me. “Haley, I must speak with you.”

  “I’m standing right here, Preston,” I said.

  He puffed up, then glanced at the three employees sitting at the table having lunch, and said, “Outside.”

  Preston turned around, straight-armed the door, and stomped out of the breakroom.

  What now? I wondered as I followed. Then it hit me—oh my God, were Detectives Dailey and Webster here? Had they spoken with Preston? Were they going to arrest me?

  I glanced back toward the breakroom. Was it too late to cut and run?

  Preston whipped around in the middle of the hallway, wild-eyed and half-crazed, and said, “What were you thinking, Haley? What were you thinking? I asked you to handle one simple project.”

  I was supposed to handle a project?

  “And this happens?” Preston said, his voice raising.

  Something had happened?

  His hands trembled as he pushed his fingers through the little hair that was left on his head.

  “The employees—all of them—are expecting everything you promised them,” he declared.

  I’d promised the employees something?

  “Fireworks at the Red Rock Resort. Helicopter rides over the Grand Canyon. A party at some bar at Harrah’s.” Preston looked stunned, bewildered—which was sort of the way I felt, too.

  “I never promised anybody—”

  “You most certainly did,” Preston told me. “Employees have come to me all morning since the meeting.”

  There was a meeting this morning? Oops. No wonder the store seemed so quiet.

  “They’ve been telling me what they want to do before our grand opening,” Preston said. “They said you told them their suggestions all sounded like a great idea.”

  Well, yeah, okay, I’d said that—but I thought people were just sharing fun things to do in Vegas. Why would they think I’d have Preston arrange those things?

  “I asked you to find a way to reward the employees after the situation with that poor girl’s murder,” Preston said.

  Oh, crap. Now I remembered.

  “But I certainly can’t do any of those things. There’s no room in the budget. They’re completely out of the question,” he insisted. He pointed his finger at me. “You’re going to have to tell them.”

  “What?”

  “Or find a way to pay for those extravagant requests yourself.”

  “What?”

  “You handle it. I’m washing my hands of the entire situation,” Preston declared, and rubbed his hands together, as if I needed a demonstration.

  He expected me to pay thousands of dollars to treat the employees? I’d had to scrounge quarters from the bottom of my purse for lunch.

  “We’re done here.” Preston whipped around and walked off, then stopped suddenly and turned back. “There’s someone in my office to see you.”

  I glanced down the hallway at the door to Preston’s office.

  Jeez, I really hoped my official boyfriend was in there— and that he had his platinum American Express card on him.

  But more than likely, Detective Dailey—with Webster somewhere just out of sight in case I made a break for it—was in there waiting for me. At the moment, the idea of being arrested didn’t seem so bad. Maybe I could organize a tour of my cell block. The store employees would like that just as well as a helicopter tour of the Grand Canyon, wouldn’t they?

  It least it was something I could afford.

  I walked down the hallway and pushed open the door to Preston’s office. A man I didn’t recognize stood in the corner. Thirty-five, I guessed, not much taller than me, nice build, okay clothes, kind of good looking.

  “Haley Randolph?” he asked. “I’m Mike Ivan.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Oh my God. Mike Ivan.

  The guy rumored to belong to the Russian mob. The guy with questionable business methods. The guy who’d been looking for Courtney—who was now dead.

  He’d come to Vegas. To Henderson. To Holt’s. To Preston’s office. To see me.

  Why was he here? What did he want? How had he found me? How had he gotten past the security guard at the door? Why had Preston turned his office over to him?

  A zillion thoughts raced through my head—lucky thing I’d had that chocolate shake for lunch—but all I could come up with was—this couldn’t be good.

  Would it help if I clicked my heels together and repeated, “There’s no place like Macy’s”?

  Mike nodded toward the hallway. “I told the store manager I was a family friend,” he said.

  He rounded the desk and came toward me. I backed away, into the corner. Mike pushed the door closed.

  “We need to get a few things cleared up,” he told me.

  Oh my God. He was going to kill me. He was going to murder me right here in the store manager’s office—which that idiot Preston had conveniently let him use.

  Who the hell was doing the hiring for Holt’s these days? Couldn’t we get some ex-Navy SEALs, or maybe some Special Forces guys into management positions?

  I was definitely taking that up with Ty—if he made it to the crime scene before I drew my final breath.

  “I run legitimate businesses,” Mike said. “No matter what you’ve heard, or what your private detective buddy told you, or what the cops say, I run a clean operation.”

  If Mike had gotten word that Jack Bishop and Detective Shuman had been asking around about him—which I supposed he had or he wouldn’t be here—I wondered at just how clean his operation was. Or if maybe he used his family mob connections when he needed them.

  I would.

  “My family,” Mike said, and shook his head as if he’d been through this same thing before, many times. “They go their way, I go mine. That’s the way it’s always been with us. I can’t help what they do. You know what it’s like with family.”

  I knew exactly. The biggest reason I’d come to Vegas in the first place was to escape spa week with my mom and her friends.

  Yeah, okay, being related to the Russian mob was way worse than having a former beauty queen for a mother.

  “Still, I hear things,” he said.

  I had to agree that could come in handy, especially when a homicide detective with the LAPD was asking questions about your possible connection to a murder.

  “Then maybe you heard that I’m a suspect in the murder of Courtney Collins,” I said.

  Mike looked sad. “Courtney was a great girl.”

  “You two dated?” I asked.

  “Business,” he said. “I’m in import–export. Textiles, among other things.”

  I’d sp
ent some time in L.A.’s Textile District recently—long story—and knew a little about the place. The culture was very strong there, very diverse. Koreans and Armenians, Latinos, all sorts of ethnicities, lots of unwritten rules. Some places refused to deal with people off the street, others saw everyone as fair game and took advantage whenever possible. It was a twilight economy, lots of cash transactions. Everybody was wary of outsiders, suspicious, and cautious.

  But in the end it was business, big business. Everyone hustled, from the guys in the stores to those hidden away in the top floors of the buildings, running the factories. You had to be smart to fit in.

  I didn’t see Courtney wheeling and dealing down there. She’d need somebody like Mike to handle it for her.

  “What did Courtney need?” I asked.

  “Fabric. The expensive kind,” Mike said. “I’m talking fabric and leather from Florence, Paris, all over Europe. Hundreds of dollars per yard. Courtney needed it for her business.”

  “Fashion accessories,” I said.

  “For a very upscale, very exclusive clientele,” Mike said.

  I knew the sort of items he was talking about. One-of-a-kind pieces, each handmade. More wearable art than fashion. Nothing commercial, nothing mass produced.

  “So I guess Courtney owed you money?” I asked.

  “She worked some odd jobs, sold some pieces to the shops on Rodeo Drive and in Santa Monica, wherever those types of clients frequented. She paid me when she could. I was okay with that. I don’t mind helping out an artist from time to time,” Mike said. “Then Danielle showed up.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “I thought Danielle started the line, did the designs, and Courtney handled the business end of things.”

  Mike shook his head. “No way. They were Courtney’s designs right from the start.”

  Okay, that was weird. Danielle had definitely told me differently. But perhaps she’d had her own agenda.

  Maybe she thought claiming that she designed the collection herself sounded more prestigious—which, I guess, it did. And she probably hadn’t wanted to admit she’d been responsible for the business end of things, since it hadn’t gone well.

  Or maybe she just wanted to claim the line for herself so she could sell off the few pieces that remained and come up with the cash to pay off Mike and the Eastern Industrial Complex where they had their workroom. They probably had other debts she had to clear up, too.

  Or maybe Mike was lying.

  “Danielle talked Courtney into moving to Vegas. That’s when I stopped receiving money,” Mike said. “But that’s taken care of now.”

  Okay, that surprised me.

  “Danielle paid you?” I asked.

  “She called yesterday, said she’d have the money in a few days. I drove up,” Mike said. “Better to do these things in person.”

  I wondered if that was the Russian mob’s standard operating procedure, but thought it better not to ask.

  “You came to Vegas yesterday?” I asked. “And you saw Danielle here? Not in L.A.?”

  “Last night at Courtney’s apartment. Danielle was there with Tony, the boyfriend,” Mike explained. “Danielle told me she was coming into some money. Said she’d have everything she owed me in a couple of days.”

  “Where was Danielle getting the money?” I asked.

  Mike shrugged. “She didn’t say and I didn’t ask.”

  All I could figure was that Courtney had some life insurance that Danielle expected to collect on. Courtney had no other assets that I knew of.

  Mike opened the office door and gave me a hard look. “So we understand each other?”

  I didn’t understand everything that was going on with Danielle and Courtney, but I got Mike’s message loud and clear.

  “You’re a businessman, collecting an honest, overdue debt,” I said. “Nothing more.”

  He gave me a curt nod and left.

  I plopped down in Preston’s desk chair, suddenly exhausted, my head spinning.

  Danielle had lied to me last night when she’d called me at Rosalyn’s house. She’d told me she was in Los Angeles when, in fact, she was right here in town—according to Mike, anyway.

  He’d been in Vegas last night. Tony, whom I’d thought had taken off to parts unknown, was here also. And Robbie Freedman, he’d been in town, too.

  Valerie Wagner had told the woman in the gift shop that she was leaving, but had she? She could have easily been here also.

  I propped my elbows on Preston’s desk and rested my forehead on my palms.

  Everybody connected with Courtney’s murder had been here last night when Rosalyn was killed. Any one of them could have stabbed either—or both—of them to death.

  But why?

  It was possible Danielle stood to collect some insurance money from Courtney’s death, but I didn’t know that for sure. Yet that didn’t explain why Rosalyn had been killed, and I knew the two deaths had to be connected somehow.

  I sat back in Preston’s chair, still stuck on the same question that had bothered me for days: Why had anybody wanted to kill Courtney?

  And then, why kill Rosalyn? Why?

  As soon as I punched out for the day, I called Detective Shuman in Los Angeles. I wasn’t all that happy that his investigation of Mike Ivan, the Russian mob, and Courtney’s murder had caused Mike to track me down and show up at Holt’s.

  Yeah, okay, I knew it had been my idea for Shuman to check into Mike Ivan in the first place, but still.

  I got into my car and started it, turning the air conditioning vents to blow in my face while I listened to his line ring. Shuman picked up.

  “Great detective work,” I said, and managed not to sound angry—well, not too angry. “Mike Ivan came to see me today.”

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  Shuman sounded concerned. Really concerned. My anger disappeared, replaced by—well, I don’t know exactly what it was.

  “I’m okay,” I said. “How did he find me?”

  I imagined Shuman holding his phone up to his ear, frowning his cop frown and thinking.

  “He must have called in a favor with someone in Las Vegas law enforcement,” Shuman said. “He probably found out who was being investigated in the death of Courtney Collins, then got your name and contact information.”

  And with that info, he’d put me together with Jack Bishop and Detective Shuman asking around about him.

  Maybe Mike was more connected than he admitted.

  “What did he want?” Shuman asked.

  “Mostly to tell me he was a legitimate businessman,” I said. “He’d sold fabric to Courtney and wanted to be paid. That’s the extent of his involvement, he claims.”

  “Might be true. I couldn’t turn up anything on him,” Shuman agreed. “Struck out on Danielle Shepherd, too.”

  For a moment, I’d forgotten that I’d asked Shuman to check into her. That whole thing with Mike and the Russian mob knowing my name and where I was working rattled me, more than a little.

  “Foster kid, shoplifting as a teen,” Shuman said. “Nothing serious.”

  So much for my idea about Danielle killing Courtney for her insurance money. I mean, come on, you just didn’t suddenly stab your business partner to death out of the blue. Right? Something must lead up to it.

  “Anything new on your end?” Shuman asked.

  I had an armload of suspects but no motive or evidence and, of course, I was now a suspect in yet another murder.

  I decided Shuman didn’t need to know that.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Let me know if anything else should turn up.”

  Shuman was silent for a few seconds, then said, “When are you coming home?”

  Something about the way he said it sent a warm shudder through me. Shuman had that effect on me sometimes.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “Soon, I hope.”

  “I hope so, too,” he said softly.

  A long, silent pause hung between us, then morphed into a mutual we-ca
n’t-go-there realization.

  “Maybe I’ll see you around,” Shuman said briskly.

  “Yeah, maybe,” I agreed, and we both hung up.

  Oh my God, what had just happened?

  I had to talk to Marcie, my best friend in the entire universe. Only a BFF could make sense of this.

  I punched in her number as I backed out of the parking space and headed down Valle Verde Road. Her voicemail picked up. Damn. I left her a message to call me immediately.

  Then it hit me. Oh my God, why hadn’t I called Ty? He was my official boyfriend. If I was feeling something—and I had no idea what it was—nothing probably—for another man, shouldn’t I call my boyfriend for reassurance or something?

  Crap. Why did I always think of Ty last?

  CHAPTER 25

  The traffic light at the intersection ahead of me turned red with absolutely no warning. Really. I slammed on the brakes.

  I was in no mood.

  I sat there fidgeting in my seat, tapping my palm against the steering wheel. That conversation with Shuman. What was up with that?

  The light changed and I drove forward.

  Where was my best friend when I desperately needed to discuss the situation with her? And why—why—in a time of crisis did I always think of Ty last? It was so irritating.

  My cell phone rang. I grabbed it and saw Madam CeeCee’s name on the caller I.D. screen. I nearly ran up onto the sidewalk.

  Oh my God. If ever I needed my luck to change, it was now.

  “Madam CeeCee?” I think I shouted into the phone. “This is Haley.”

  “Yes, I know.” Her voice was calm, quiet. Soothing. “What seems to be your problem?”

  Jeez, where to start?

  “I’m having some financial troubles—well, okay, a lot of financial troubles,” I said.

  “I see,” she commented.

  “But I can still pay you,” I said quickly. “The big thing is, well, some lady put a curse on me.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “And I have to find some way to get rid of it,” I told her. Jeez, I sounded awfully desperate. “Can you help with that?”