It was all I’d been able to think about since leaving the June Street house yesterday. For a while last night, as I lay awake trying not to envision my future in the unemployment line, I briefly considered going to Andy, telling him everything, and turning the whole investigation over to him so it could be handled in the correct manner.
I’d dismissed that thought almost immediately.
For one thing, I was sure Andy would twist everything around, blame me for the whole incident, make himself look like the victim, and have me fired.
He aspired to management so I was sure he could do this with practiced ease.
Second, I really wanted to handle this case myself. Yes, I realized that I didn’t know how to go about investigating a possible murder, but I was sure I could figure it out—or maybe I could just Google it.
But the big thing was that I’d been in Edith Bagley’s home. I’d seen her possessions. I’d gotten an intimate glimpse at the woman she’d been, and it made me mad that someone had possibly—probably—killed her. I wanted justice for Edith, and I wanted to be the one who provided it.
When I awoke this morning, everything became crystal clear. All I had to do was dodge Andy’s questions about the missing dog case, continue with my job as a personal shopper, figure out how to conduct a murder investigation, conduct the investigation, and find the killer with no police involvement and without anyone at Fisher Joyce suspecting what I was doing.
Luckily, I knew where to start.
I opened my portfolio on the conference room table and started a list of everything I needed to do. Bailey, seated next to me, gave me a double eyebrow bob, wondering, I’m sure, why I was taking notes on Fern’s diatribe concerning the blatant overuse of paper towels in the breakroom. I wrote “grocery list” at the top of the paper. Bailey swallowed a grin and turned away.
Barbara Walker-Pierce, in her zeal to do I don’t know what, had destroyed any evidence that might have been found in Edith’s bedroom. She’d trampled the carpet, dug through the Louis Vuitton suitcase, and handled the money and the gun. She’d done the same in the dressing suite and secret room by wiping out fingerprints in the dust, searching each piece of luggage, and leafing through Edith’s journal.
Even if the police were called in, at this point I felt certain that no conclusive fingerprint or DNA evidence would be found that hadn’t been contaminated by Mrs. Walker-Pierce.
That left me with investigating the case by means that I was very familiar with—hunting up facts, analyzing them, and talking to people.
“Hollis? Hollis?”
This time it was Louise Thornton who interrupted my thoughts. I looked up and realized that everyone was rising from their chairs, heading for the door, and I hadn’t written anything on my to-do list. No chance of that now.
I closed my portfolio and stood.
“New client,” Louise said, and shoved a piece of yellow legal sized paper at me. “Today.”
Louise never used more than a half dozen words to express a thought. She was always in a hurry, always frazzled, always running behind. Her hair was continually in an up-do—or a partial up-do, since strands constantly came loose. Her makeup was never applied evenly—today she had mascara on one eye. I figured her for late thirties, with a tall, willowy frame. She wore expensive clothing that never fit her exactly right.
All I could figure was that she either got dressed in complete darkness each morning, or didn’t own a mirror of any sort.
I glanced down at the paper and saw that it was handwritten.
“Did you email this to me?” I asked, since that’s how I was always notified of a new client.
But Louise was already gone, racing toward the door of the conference room. I hurried after her.
“Client has no computer or cell phone,” Louise said. “Couldn’t forward a message to you.”
“That’s strange,” I said, striding along beside her. “Who doesn’t use a—”
“Everything’s there,” she said, and nodded toward the paper. “Today. Must be today.”
Louise found another gear and pulled away, leaving me standing in the corridor.
I read over the paper. My new client was one Carlotta Cain. I didn’t recognize the name.
According to the instructions Louise had passed along to me, Carlotta wanted me to purchase for her a black, beaded gown in a size four, costing no more than two hundred bucks. I heaved a mental sigh of relief. At least it wasn’t elastic-waist khaki pants. Carlotta did, however, want me to deliver it to her personally, today. A few hours turnaround for one of my off-listers was rare but not unheard of.
I needed to find out exactly who this Carlotta Cain was so I headed toward the hospitality department where I had a cubicle, my little piece of home sweet home right here at Fisher Joyce.
The company was spread out over the entire sixth floor of the building. The corporate executives had their own location far removed from the rest of us. I’d never been in there but I was pretty sure their carpet and furniture were nicer than ours.
The area where the attorneys worked was near the corporate executives. I’d heard they had private elevators to insure discreet entrances and exits by celebrities and high-profile clients.
If you paid the firm hundreds of bucks per billable hour, I guess you deserved your own elevator.
The rest of the departments were arranged in no particular order down several different corridors. Tiny signs helped newbies get around. Clients were escorted by security personnel.
I found my way to my cubicle, one of dozens in a cube farm where the company’s event planners and personal shoppers worked. The business unit was alongside ours. All the furnishings were complementary hues of gray and blue, making it impossible to distinguish where one department ended and another began.
Last month’s new hires were probably still roaming the floor, trying to find their assigned cubicle.
I settled in and typed Carlotta Cain’s name into the company’s search engine on my computer. Nothing popped. Just as Louise had said, Carlotta had never been a client of Fisher Joyce. I figured that meant she’d either just arrived in Tinseltown with her high school graduation money duct-taped to her thigh, or she was so old and cranky she’d run off every shopper and personal assistant who’d ever worked for her.
Yes, Carlotta Cain was my kind of gal, all right.
At this point, I would usually e-mail the investigations department and asked for a background check on her. Instead, I decided an up-close and personal request would better suit my needs.
“Are you shopping today?” Bailey asked from the cubicle next to mine when she saw me stand up.
“New client,” I said. “Have you ever heard of Carlotta Cain?”
Bailey thought for a couple of seconds, then shook her head.
“Doesn’t sound familiar,” she said and grinned. “But if she’s assigned to you, nobody’s heard of her.”
“I hate you,” I said. “Did I ever tell you that I hate you?”
Bailey just smiled broader.
“I’m going to Nordstrom at The Grove. I’ve got a ton of things to buy,” she said.
“I really hate you now,” I told her.
“As you should,” Bailey said. “Want to come with me?”
Images of all the fabulous clothing in Nordstrom flew into my mind—things that were actually in style—but I had to bat them away.
“Budget constraints,” I said. “Two hundred dollars for a gown.”
Bailey rolled her eyes. “Well, good luck finding something decent for that price.”
“Thanks,” I said. “You’re a big help.”
“Any time,” she said.
I gathered my things, left my cube, and swung by Louise’s office. She had her phone tucked under one ear while she fiddled with the mouse and wrote on a tablet. She gestured with her chin to a row of dividers on the corner of her desk.
Luckily, I’d worked there long enough to know what that meant. I flipped through t
he envelopes, found the one with my name on it that held the company credit card I was to use today, signed the log, and left.
I wound my way through the corridors toward the investigations department. I felt like one of those seek-and-destroy robots in a sci-fi movie, swiveling my head constantly, looking for the enemy—who, in this case, was Andy Edmund.
I hadn’t texted or called yesterday to update him on Barbara Walker-Pierce’s supposed missing dog, as I’d promised. Honestly, I’d been so overwhelmed with what I’d stumbled into that I hadn’t even thought to contact him.
He was probably hopping mad by now, fearful that he’d be questioned about the case and wouldn’t know what to report—above all, Andy was not going to look bad in front of anyone. I didn’t want to run into him and have him grill me about what went on yesterday so I needed to avoid him.
I turned the corner into the investigations department. And, of course, there stood Andy Edmund.
Chapter 5
Fisher Joyce was big on maintaining client confidentiality. That meant everyone who worked for the company had undergone a background check and had signed a non-disclosure agreement when hired. To further insure that client info wasn’t inadvertently overheard or observed, everyone in the investigations department had a private office. Nothing grand—not for the techs, anyway—just a closet-size space with a desk, chair, visitor chair, and file cabinet. To prevent the techs from feeling as if they’d been relegated to solitary confinement—and so their supervisor could make sure they were, in fact, working—every office door had a window in it.
Other offices in the department were larger, but with no window. That’s where all the hot guys worked. They were the consultants, the P.I.s who did the leg work for the attorneys. Most of them were tall, built, and rugged looking—yet another reason for me to work in the investigations department. I’d seen them occasionally in the building, wearing everything from a Tom Ford tux to CAT boots and cargo pants.
Andy was the assistant to the department supervisor. Nobody seemed to know exactly what his duties were—including Andy himself which, I’m sure, was what he preferred.
He was standing outside his office, absorbed in his cell phone when I spotted him. I could have cut down another aisle and avoided talking to him but I didn’t want him to see me hurrying away and come after me. I didn’t want to have the missing-dog-case conversation in front of anyone.
“Hi, Andy,” I said, and stopped in front of him.
He stared at his phone for a few more seconds, then looked at me. His expression soured.
“Oh. Hollis. Hi,” he said, then started tapping on his phone again.
“I want to update you on what happened yesterday,” I said.
A few more seconds passed before he lifted his head.
“Yesterday?” he asked.
“Barbara Walker-Pierce,” I said.
Andy stared at me.
“Her missing dog,” I said.
He said nothing.
“I saw you in the parking garage and you told me about the new case you were going out on,” I said.
“Oh. Yes. That—”
Andy caught his reflection in the window of the door across the aisle. He turned his head left, then right, and smoothed his hair back over his ear.
“So, anyway,” I said, “I’m on it. Everything is under control. The case is progressing. In fact, I was just going to ask one of the techs to—”
“Fine. Whatever,” Andy said, and walked away.
Well, okay, that was easier than I’d imagined.
I headed down the aisle and stopped outside the office where my friend Meredith worked. Her door was closed, as per company policy, and through the window I could see that she was staring intently at her computer screen.
Meredith was about my age, with brown hair that she usually wore in a ponytail, and a curvy figure that she seldom knew how to shop for. Her envy of my fashion sense that had gotten me the job as a personal shopper, and my envy of her position doing investigative work, had brought us together in the best possible way.
I tapped on her door. She waved me inside.
“Hey, Hollis, what’s up?” she said.
“New client.” I sat down in her visitor’s chair and handed her the yellow legal-sized paper I’d brought with me. “How’s it going with Neil?”
“Great,” she said, and started inputting Carlotta Cain’s info into her computer. “A little too great, I’m afraid.”
Neil was Meredith’s boyfriend. He was a terrific guy. They’d met several weeks ago at a club, and were still going strong.
I was invested in their relationship a little more than usual because I’d played a part in their meeting. We’d gone to a club on Sunset with some friends and, of course, Meredith had no idea what to wear, and even if she’d known, it wouldn’t have been hanging in her closet—Meredith’s words, not mine.
I’d found the perfect little black dress among the dozens in the wardrobe department, and after explaining the situation to Moss she’d let me take it for the evening. Meredith had looked smokin’ hot in it. Neil hadn’t been able to take his eyes off of her since that night.
“Trouble with you two?” I asked.
“No,” Meredith said and paused with her fingers poised over the keyboard. “Yes. Yes, there’s a problem. He wants me to meet his parents.”
“Already?” I asked. “It’s kind of soon, isn’t it?”
Meredith started typing again.
“It’s way too soon,” she said. “Really, I never want to meet them.”
“What’s wrong with them?” I asked, and my own parents flashed in my head.
“They’re rich,” Meredith said, and gave the mouse one final click. “I’m talking mega rich.”
Meredith had told me she came from a middle-class, broken home in Riverside, a city about sixty miles east of Los Angeles. With my family situation being what it was—the major reason I’d left KCK—I understood her struggle to fit into the Los Angeles lifestyle.
“Neil’s dad is a major player at some movie studio,” Meredith said. “His mom is an attorney. They’re zillionaires.”
I didn’t bother pointing out that they were probably nice people because I knew that wasn’t the problem. Fitting in was the problem.
We both sat there for a minute listening to the printer run.
“What are you going to do?” I asked.
Meredith grabbed the stack of papers from the tray, punched holes in them, and fastened them into a new portfolio.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“If you decide to meet them, I’ll help you find the perfect thing to wear,” I offered.
Meredith smiled. “I wouldn’t attempt a meet without your help.”
“Just say the word,” I told her. “I’m there.”
She pointed to the portfolio I’d brought with me that I was clutching on my lap with both hands. “Need something else?”
“Just some follow-up info,” I said, and handed her the portfolio.
Meredith opened it and frowned.
“This is the missing dog case from yesterday,” she said. “Andy is supposed to be handling this.”
The thing about the techs in the investigations department was that they never stopped investigating. Details jumped out at them, dots connected. Seldom did anything get past them.
“Why do you have this?” she asked.
I hated to tell a big fat lie to Meredith, but I didn’t know of any other way to get the info I needed to investigate Edith Bagley’s possible murder.
“Andy gave it to me because I shop for the client,” I said.
Meredith had no way of knowing who I did, or didn’t, shop for, so she had no reason to doubt my story.
“I already have a working relationship with the client so it seemed less stressful for her if she worked with someone she already knew,” I said. “It’s such a simple case. A missing dog. Really, it’s no big deal.”
I stopped myself, afraid I
might oversell it.
“I know you want to work here,” Meredith said. “It’s a good way to get your foot in the door—provided Andy gives you the credit for finding the dog.”
I knew that if this case blew up, Andy would distance himself from me in a heartbeat. But when I solved it? Andy would have no choice but to admit the truth.
“I think Andy will do the right thing,” I said.
Meredith’s frown deepened.
“Are you and Andy involved, or something?” she asked.
“Oh, God, no,” I said, and waved my hands trying to erase her words from the air. “No. No, no, no.”
She sighed. “Thank goodness.”
“Can you help me out?” I asked, and gestured to the portfolio. “I made a list of the info I need.”
Meredith spent a few minutes on the computer.
“Who’s this Bagley woman?” she asked.
The list I’d given her included my request for newspaper stories, public records, police and private security reports, but nothing about Barbara Walker-Pierce, the name under which the original file had been opened.
“Edith Bagley is our client’s aunt,” I said. “The dog went missing from her house.”
Another lie to one of my best friends. It didn’t feel so great, but what else could I do?
“This will take a while,” she said. “I’ll e-mail the report to you.”
“Great. But hang on to the hardcopy, will you? I’ll pick up it up from you later,” I said, because I didn’t want a confidential report on one of Fisher Joyce’s clients lying in my desk inbox for anyone to see—and, of course, question why I had it.
“It will be ready this afternoon,” Meredith said.
“Thanks,” I said and rose from my chair.
“What about the dog?” she asked, looking up at me. “Don’t you want me to check with the animal shelters?”
I didn’t like giving Meredith extra work that I knew would come to nothing, but I certainly couldn’t tell her I didn’t want her to check.
“Of course,” I said
Meredith changed screens on the computer and asked, “What kind of dog is it?”
Good question. I gave it a couple of seconds thought.
Shop Til You Drop Dead (A Hollis Brannigan Mystery) Page 4
