Clutches and Curses

by Dorothy Howell

  “Certainly,” Madam CeeCee said. “Let’s make an appointment, shall we? How about November fourth? Two o’clock?”

  November? November?

  Did she honestly think I could walk around with a curse on me for another five months?

  “I’ll only be in town a few more days. I’m here on business. I’m staying at the Culver Inn on Saint Rose Parkway,” I said.

  Maybe she knew the place. Maybe she knew how awful it was and would take pity on me, and give me an appointment immediately. I mean, jeez, if staying at the Culver Inn didn’t demonstrate a desperate need to have a curse lifted, what did?

  “Do you have anything sooner?” I asked.

  “Let me check into it,” Madam CeeCee said.

  The line went dead.

  “Hello? Hello?” I’m pretty sure I screamed that into the phone.

  No answer. Damn. I tossed my phone into my purse.

  What kind of psychic was she? Shouldn’t she have known before she called how desperate I was for curse-lifting assistance, and had an appointment available for today?

  I whipped into the parking lot of the Culver Inn and slid into a slot near the front entrance. My cell phone rang again.

  Oh my God. That had to be Madam CeeCee with a new appointment time. Or maybe Marcie.

  I yanked out my phone. It was Ty calling.

  Okay, was this good luck or bad luck?

  “Yeah, hey, hi, what’s up?” I asked.

  I hated to rush Ty off the phone—it’s not like he called me all the time—but I didn’t want to take the chance of missing Marcie’s or Madam CeeCee’s call.

  “I’ve got a surprise for you,” Ty said, sounding pleased with himself.

  Jeez, he’d already promised to take over my bills, buy me a beach house and a convertible, and send me on a month-long international shopping spree. What did he want to do now? Carve my face on Mount Rushmore?

  Whatever it was, I hoped he could spit it out quickly.

  “I’m taking you to a reception for the designers showing at the handbag convention this weekend,” Ty said.

  I stared out the windshield at the entrance to the Culver Inn, too stunned to speak.

  “You know about the convention, don’t you?” he asked.

  I meant to say yes, but only a little squeak came out.

  “The reception is very exclusive. The fashion elite, industry insiders, some celebrities,” Ty said. “It’s Saturday afternoon. How does that sound?”

  I made a little mewling noise.

  “I know you don’t have anything to wear with you,” Ty said, “so I’m sending a car for you. I’ve arranged for a personal shopper at Neiman Marcus to have some things ready for you to look at. “

  I opened my mouth, but not even a groan came out.

  “Would you like me to fly Marcie up so she can go with you?” Ty asked.

  I stopped breathing. Really. I’m pretty sure my heart quit beating.

  Oh my God, oh my God.

  Ty was taking me to a reception for the gods and goddesses of the fashion world? I’d rub elbows with them? Talk with them? Get the inside scoop on upcoming trends?

  And all of this on Saturday, smack in the middle of the handbag convention, the most fabulous thing that had happened to me—so far—in my entire life?

  Oh, wait. No. No, no. No.

  The handbag convention. The handbag convention that I’d already committed to work because I desperately needed money so I could eat, because I’d been cursed by a crazy old lady in a crappy midrange department store.

  I leaned forward and banged my head against the steering wheel. This couldn’t be happening. It could not be happening. Ty had arranged something fabulous—beyond fabulous, really—and it was an event that he actually planned to attend with me. Only I couldn’t go.

  I hate my life.

  “Well, uh, it sounds great, Ty,” I said, forcing the words out syllable by syllable. “But, uh, you see, well, I . . . I can’t go.”

  Silence.

  I waited. He didn’t say anything. For a moment, I wondered if he’d put me on hold or something.

  “I thought you’d enjoy this,” Ty said. He sounded a little hurt, but more puzzled than anything.

  “I would,” I assured him. “But, well, I’d already made plans to work the convention.”

  “Doing what?” Now he was really puzzled.

  Ty was a smart guy. He ran a huge chain of department stores, he’d started boutique and specialty stores, and he’d just launched Holt’s International. He managed thousands of employees, billions of dollars in assets, in six states and on two continents. Nobody did that by looking only at what was in front of them. Ty’s mind was always jumping three, four, or five steps ahead.

  I knew he was doing that now. I pictured him dressed in one of his awesome suits, wearing a silk necktie, hunched forward on his desk, pressing the phone against his ear, making that I-can-figure-this-out-and-make-it-my-bitch face.

  He’s so hot when he does that.

  “My friend Maya hooked me up,” I said, and managed to put more enthusiasm than I felt into my voice. “We’re hostessing. You know, handing out info packets, pointing, smiling.”

  “Why are you doing that, Haley?” Ty asked in his you’ve-completely-lost-me voice.

  I get that a lot.

  “A girl’s got to eat,” I said, and managed what I hoped was an oh-well-that’s-life little chuckle.

  “I told you, Haley, I’ll take care of you,” he said. “You believe me, don’t you?”

  Of course I believed him. That wasn’t the point—or maybe it was.

  I didn’t want to look pathetic and desperate—which was exactly the way I felt at the moment—but still, I didn’t want Ty to know that. I didn’t want him to think—to know—I was such a colossal screw-up that I couldn’t take care of myself.

  Yeah, okay, I knew he was my official boyfriend and we were considering moving in together. Under those circumstances, I should be able to tell him anything—yeah, I knew that.

  But I couldn’t bring myself to ask him for money. Money changed things. It would be like we weren’t equal partners. He’d be superior and I would be subservient.

  And, yes, I knew that in a long-term, serious relationship, those things shouldn’t matter, and there would always be times when one of us would have more or accomplish more than the other. But if I took his money— or all the other things he’d promised—it would be like I was suddenly less of a person.

  Not a great feeling.

  “Yes, of course I believe you,” I told him. “And I appreciate the thought and all the effort you put into arranging everything. It’s great. Really. But I’ve already committed to working the convention. My friend is counting on me, so I really can’t back out. It wouldn’t be right, and I just can’t do it.”

  Silence.

  I heard nothing. Not a sigh, a groan, a grumble. Nothing. I had no idea what Ty was thinking—or maybe he’d just put me on hold.

  So, okay, I couldn’t take him up on his offer of a lifetime, but maybe I could salvage something.

  “Could you get me a Delicious handbag?” I asked. “I’ve looked almost everywhere in Vegas and haven’t found one yet.”

  “You won’t find one in Vegas,” Ty said. “Stores are withholding them until after the handbag convention.”

  Anger whipped through me quicker than a supermodel sliding into a silk slip dress.

  “What?” I demanded. “You’re kidding.”

  “It’s one of the grand prizes in the raffle at the convention,” Ty said.

  A Delicious handbag was a grand prize in a raffle—and I had a curse on me?

  Just my luck.

  I didn’t ask Ty if he was still coming to the convention. Maybe he wouldn’t want the fashion elite, industry insiders, and celebrities to know his girlfriend was handing out info packets.

  I hate my life.

  “I’ve got to go,” I said, and hung up.

  My whole l
ife was a mess—a complete mess. The only thing I knew for sure was that I was working as a minimum wage grunt at the handbag event of the century when I could have enjoyed it, being pampered at every turn, in the lap of luxury, getting face time with the rich, fabulous, and famous—not to mention my way-hot official boyfriend.

  Somebody was going down.

  I glared out my windshield and spotted Bradley’s Lexus in the parking lot.

  This was all that rat-weasel’s fault, I decided. If he hadn’t charged all those nights to my credit card and maxed it out, I could have blown off working at the convention and gone to the reception with Ty.

  I got out of my car, slammed the door, and stomped into the lobby of the Culver Inn. Maya sat on one of the chairs near the registration desk. I’d never seen her here in the evenings, only at the morning buffet. Her arms were folded and she was tapping her foot against the floor.

  “I’m here to pick up my final check,” she said.

  “You’re kidding,” I said. “Bradley really fired you?”

  Maya looked up at me and I saw tears pooled in her eyes. “I’m done.”

  “That little bastard,” I muttered.

  She nodded toward Bradley’s office door behind the registration desk.

  “He told me to be here at four,” she said, “and I’ve been sitting here waiting for him all this time.”

  “He knows you’re here?” I asked.

  “He knows.”

  Okay, now I was really mad. I’d been mad before I walked into the lobby. Now I had somebody to take it out on.

  I stormed around the registration desk. The girl on duty—yet another new clerk—called to me but I ignored her. I pounded on Bradley’s door, then yanked it open. He was reared back in his chair, his feet up on his desk, flipping through a magazine.

  “Have you got Maya’s check, or not?” I demanded.

  Bradley swiveled in his chair and threw me a smirk. “No. Tell her to call me tomorrow. I’ll have it for her then. Maybe.”

  I was so angry I could have slapped that grin right off his face. It took everything I had to hold back. I left the office and slammed the door.

  Maya walked over. “He doesn’t have it, does he?”

  “No,” I said, and managed to keep my anger in check.

  She drew in a deep breath, steeling her emotions. “At least I’ll get paid for working the convention. Arlene usually gets our checks to us in a week.”

  A week? One whole week more before Maya—and I—would get money?

  “I’ll pick you up Saturday morning,” Maya said. “We’ll ride to the convention together.”

  “Sure, okay,” I said, but I wasn’t really paying attention.

  She left. I walked outside. It was blazing hot and the wind had kicked up. In the distance, I saw the tops of the casinos on The Strip.

  I thought about hitting the slots, taking a chance on winning a boatload of cash, even though I knew I shouldn’t. But money wouldn’t break my bad mood. Not now. Only one thing would do that—getting even with Bradley.

  I had an idea of how to do it. It was a long shot, but hey, isn’t that what Vegas was all about?

  The scary part was that only one person could help me with it. I pulled out my cell phone and placed a call.

  “Yeah?” Cliff answered.

  He sounded cautious and for a minute I thought he’d forgotten who I was. Then I realized he didn’t recognize my name on his caller I.D. screen.

  “It’s Dana,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah. Hey, Dana, how’re you doing?”

  “Listen,” I said. “I need you to bring your ufology field investigation kit and come over right away.”

  “Whoa, dude, what’s up?” he asked.

  “I located a whole colony of aliens.”

  CHAPTER 26

  “Whoa, dude, is this like illegal or something?” Cliff asked.

  We were in the third floor stairwell of the Culver Inn, outside the door that led to the hallway my room was on. Our voices echoed off the concrete walls and steps. It was dusty and hot in the airless passageway.

  “We’re in pursuit of scientific truth,” I said. “Isn’t that covered in your ufology mission statement?”

  “Yeah, well, I guess,” Cliff said.

  “Okay, then, let’s go,” I said, and clapped my hands together.

  “Are you sure they’re aliens staying in there?” he asked, nodding toward the adjoining room.

  Of course there were no aliens sleeping off an all-nighter in the room on the other side of the wall. There were no aliens anywhere. But it was the only excuse I could give Cliff to get him to come over and do this for me.

  Yeah, okay, I’d lied. What was the worst that could happen to me? I’d get cursed or something?

  “There’s only one way to find out for sure,” I said, and gave him my move-it-will-you eyebrow bob.

  Cliff dug through the big toolbox he’d brought over— his ufology field investigation kit—and pulled out an electric drill.

  “Hey, hang on a second,” he said.

  He didn’t say anything for a minute. I figured he was waiting for whatever thought had shot through his brain to circle back around.

  “Like, uh, what if the noise wakes them up?” Cliff proposed. “What if they all take off?”

  Good grief.

  “This breed of gray aliens doesn’t sleep,” I said. “They put themselves into suspended animation for a designated time period.”

  “Yeah?” he asked, looking unconvinced.

  “I saw it on the History Channel,” I told him.

  He nodded. “Oh, yeah, well, okay then.”

  Cliff gunned the drill a couple of times. It was really loud in the stairwell.

  “Hey,” he said, grinning really big. “This is like, you know, like the real Dana and Fox.”

  “X-Files isn’t real, Cliff,” I said. “It’s a TV show.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he said, as if that only made it better.

  “Drill,” I said, and tapped the wall. “Right here.”

  I’d selected a spot on the common wall between the stairwell and the room across the hall from mine. Cliff started drilling.

  It was a long shot, but something was going on in the rooms in this wing of the motel. Something illegal. Something Bradley knew about. I’d thought about it every way I could, and that was the only thing that made any kind of sense.

  There was no other reason for the rooms to be off-limits to guests. Nothing else explained the voices in the hallway, the late-night visitors, the mysterious pickup truck I’d seen parked near the maintenance shed. No explanation for the huge turnover in employees that assured nobody would be around long enough to question anything.

  Cliff pulled the drill bit out of the wall and stepped back.

  “Okay,” he whispered. “We’re in.”

  He knelt down and dug through his field investigation kit until he came up with another tool.

  “A borescope. See, it’s got a camera on the end,” he said, and fed the tiny tube through the hole he’d just drilled.

  I waited, bouncing on my toes, using all my strength to hold back and not rip the thing out of his hand and look through the gadget first.

  “Whoa, dude!” Cliff said. He jumped back, his eyes huge.

  Oh my God. There weren’t really aliens in there, were there?

  He looked at me, grinning and nodding his head big-time. “This is way better than aliens.”

  I peered through the eyepiece into the interior of the room.

  Oh, yeah. Way better.

  Cliff yammered all the way from the third floor to the parking lot, but I wasn’t listening. I just went with him to make sure he got out of the motel immediately.

  I’d cleaned up the drywall dust from the floor of the stairwell—okay, I’d just spread it around and mixed it with all the other dirt and dust up there—while Cliff plugged the hole with something that looked a lot like gray Play-Doh. He didn’t seem to know exactly what it
was and I figured I could go on living without knowing.

  “You’ll hook me up when you get, you know, all the details?” Cliff asked as we stood next to his Taurus.

  “You bet,” I said.

  I had no intention of telling Cliff anything, but, oh well. That’s the way it had to be. He’d have to live with it—if he even remembered I was supposed to give him the info. I waited until he drove away, then walked back into the Culver Inn plotting my next move.

  “Miss Randolph?” someone called.

  I spotted a woman in the lobby standing beside a couch, eyeing me.

  Wow, she looked fantastic. Classy, elegant. Mid-forties, I guessed, full-on hair, makeup, and nails, dressed in a cream-colored YSL suit, four-inch Jimmy Choo heels—oh my God, was that a Delicious handbag tucked under her arm?

  She walked over, poised, calm, sedate. “I’m Madam CeeCee.”

  “I love your handbag.” I think I moaned that.

  She smiled pleasantly. “I know.”

  For a moment, I was so stunned at seeing the Delicious, I didn’t remember that I’d told her where I was staying. And how did she know who I was? Was she just an awesome psychic, or had the desk clerk described me?

  I preferred to think she was an awesome psychic.

  “Where did you find it?” I asked, my gaze still glued to her handbag.

  “It was a gift,” she said softly.

  “I’m dying for one of those.” I’m pretty sure I moaned that, too.

  “I know,” she said. “Please, let’s sit.”

  We settled onto the couch. Now that she was right in front of me, I couldn’t let her leave without telling me how to break this curse. But I couldn’t mislead her. What if she put another curse on me?

  “Look, like I told you on the phone, I’m having some financial difficulties right now,” I said. “But I’ll have money very soon.”

  “I know,” she said softly.

  “And I’ll pay you every cent of your fee,”

  “Yes, I know that, too,” she assured me. “Now, tell me about this curse you’re under.”

  “Some crazy old lady waved her finger around and called on the powers of the universe to curse me,” I told her.

  Okay, it sounded kind of lame when I said it out loud, but Madam CeeCee didn’t seem to think so.