Shop Til You Drop Dead (A Hollis Brannigan Mystery)

by Dorothy Howell

  I didn’t feel so great about it, but at least now I had something to tell Barbara.

  Chapter 10

  So, about Quinn. My sister. Younger by a year.

  Quinn disappeared from my life when she’d taken off with her unemployed housepainter boyfriend shortly after she’d graduated high school.

  Then she’d disappeared completely.

  I never heard from her, and neither had any of her friends back in KCK when I’d asked about her. We were all left to wonder where she was and what had happened.

  Sometimes I thought maybe she and Vince had gotten married and were living off the grid in a commune somewhere in Oregon, growing vegetables, raising a couple of kids.

  I thought that, finally, she’d found the pharmacy where our dad worked in San Francisco, he’d taken her in, and she was stocking shelves while he dispensed pills.

  Other times I thought she was too embarrassed to admit she’d left with a loser, and was afraid to contact me.

  I’d thought all kinds of things.

  But what I really thought was that she was dead.

  I never stopped looking for Quinn, hoping I was wrong, that I’d find her or she’d contact me one day. So as I sat in my cubicle, my morning cup of Fisher Joyce coffee getting cold, I checked her Facebook page. Nothing. I Googled her name, Vince’s name, a combination of their names, hoping I might get a hit. I didn’t.

  So the truth was, the biggest reason I wanted to work in the investigations department was to locate Quinn—or, at least, learn what happened to her. They had access to all sorts of databases. With that information at my fingertips, I knew I could find her.

  All I had to do was get assigned to the department.

  Which brought me back to the moment and my chance to get there by solving Edith Bagley’s murder.

  Bailey’s face appeared over our adjoining cube wall.

  “Do you need to go to Bloomingdales today?” she asked.

  I hadn’t looked at the shopping list Louise had sent me this morning, so I didn’t know what I needed. But no matter what, I wasn’t going with Bailey, not when I had a murder to investigate.

  “Not today—so far, anyway,” I said. “If you see a black, beaded gown with sleeves, in a four, let me know, will you?”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “For less than two hundred dollars.”

  “You with your well-to-do off-listers,” Bailey said. “I’m jealous.”

  “I hate you.”

  Bailey giggled, then disappeared.

  I gathered my things and accessed the shopping list on my phone that Louise had sent me as I headed down the corridor. I almost collided with Meredith when I turned the corner.

  “Oh, hey,” she said, jumping out of the way.

  “Sorry,” I said, waving my cell phone, my excuse for not watching where I was going.

  “Was it her?” Meredith asked.

  Most of my thoughts were still divided between the shopping list I had been reading and the things I had to do today, and how I was going to get all of it done.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Gizmo,” she said.

  “Who?” I asked again.

  “The dog,” she said. “The missing dog.”

  I gasped. “I forgot.”

  “You forgot?”

  I gave myself a shake, mentally scrambling, and said, “No, I didn’t forget. I told the client. I forgot to follow up with her, that’s all.”

  “Oh. Well, okay.”

  “I’ll do it today,” I promised. “This morning.”

  “I hope she went to the shelter yesterday,” Meredith said, frowning. “You think she went, don’t you? I hate the thought of that sweet little dog staying another night in that place.”

  “I’m sure she did,” I said, feeling really icky about continuing this lie.

  “The man I spoke with at the shelter said the guy who turned her in told him she’d been wandering in the neighborhood for a while. He figured she’d been dumped out. Nobody had called to ask about her until I did. It’s so sad,” Meredith said.

  “So what’s up with meeting Neil’s parents?” I asked, anxious to change the subject.

  Meredith grumbled under her breath. “He won’t let it go. He keeps bringing it up. He says it’s his idea, but I figure it’s coming from them. They probably want to meet me so they can see how unfit I am for him, and start pressuring him to dump me.”

  I didn’t like thinking her boyfriend’s parents would be that calculating and callous, but I could see it happening.

  That’s reality, when you’re not from around here.

  “Look, if you don’t want to meet them, then don’t meet them,” I told her. “Don’t let him push you. Hang tough.”

  Meredith drew a quick breath and straightened her shoulders. “Good advice. Thanks.”

  She moved on and so did I.

  In the parking garage the valet brought a BMW around for me and I headed for Neiman Marcus. The shopping list Louise had sent me was from a new off-lister, a woman who’d recently been promoted to a management position at an insurance company. She had a hot weekend coming up and wanted to impress with nightwear—expensive nightwear. You’d think that anyone willing to fork out nearly eight hundred bucks for a LaPerla gown and robe would want to pick it out herself. But no, not when she had me to do it for her.

  Not that I was paying much attention to the purchase.

  Amid the racks and displays of elegant, chic nightwear, I couldn’t stop thinking about my visit to Pro-One Security yesterday and Zach, the tech I’d talked to. He was really good looking, and under other circumstances I might have been fixated on him, not the things he’d told me: footprints where there shouldn’t have been any; the security sensor that had been tampered with; the attempt to force open the window. Add those things to the cash and handgun hidden in Edith’s room and the strange car reported on the street, and I was left with no doubt that she’d been murdered.

  Now I needed to find her killer. For that, I needed to come up with clues, leads, evidence, and suspects.

  The sales clerk complimented my selection and packaged the gown and robe with care. I signed away the unseemly amount of money, and left. Inspiration struck—not about Edith’s murderer, unfortunately—so I detoured to the formal wear department and unearthed a black, beaded, size four, long sleeve gown that was as perfect for Carlotta Cain as I was ever going to find, including the price.

  Maybe this was a sign that my day was looking up. Maybe I could find the murderer this easily.

  I was back in my car in less than twenty minutes—it’s amazing how quickly I can blow through someone else’s money—and pulled Edith’s address book out of my tote.

  Allison, the night nurse, came to mind immediately as the most likely suspect. She was alone in the house when Edith died, then vanished as soon as authorities showed up, and hadn’t been heard from since.

  As for motive, Genevieve had caught her drinking on the job making it likely Allison would get fired and possibly never get another caretaker job if word got out. Although I didn’t see how Allison murdering Edith would keep that from happening, it did call her character into question.

  It made me wonder if Allison’s misdeeds had stopped at hitting the sauce while on duty. Maybe, alone for hours while Edith slept, she’d snooped and spotted the pocket door hidden behind the gowns. Had she found the money stashed in the secret room?

  I wondered, too, about Edith’s mental state. Barbara had mentioned Edith had become forgetful. Amid a bout of confusion and disorientation, not unusual for someone her age, had Edith actually told Allison about the cash and its hiding place?

  But if Allison had, in fact, found out about the cash and murdered Edith to get her hands on it, why was it still in the secret room?

  Maybe I’d figure that out when I talked to Allison.

  I flipped through Edith’s address book and found Allison’s name and the agency contact info, then checked out their web
site.

  The Reynolds Health Care site pictured elderly people being fawned over by competent-looking men and women wearing starched scrubs, everyone smiling contentedly, bringing to mind Liza and Phil, the caregivers that Ike had mentioned who’d catered to Edith during her visits to Vista Village. The site detailed a long list of services, everything from skilled nursing to medical supplies.

  Allison Garvey’s photo was there. I put her at mid-thirties, with brown hair and no makeup that made her look slightly unkempt. She’d worked there for twelve years as a certified aide. I wasn’t sure what that meant, exactly, and the website didn’t go into detail; I guess anyone needing care for an elderly relative was somehow supposed to know these things.

  I called the Reynolds agency and explained that I needed to hire someone to stay nights with my grandmother. Grandma Pearl, the only grandparent I’d ever known, had passed away not long ago. I remembered her as easy-going during the summers when we’d visited her, so I figured she wouldn’t mind me using her to get the info I needed.

  After being transferred around a few times I was connected with someone whose name I missed.

  “Let’s get started,” the woman said, and I heard the tapping of a keyboard. “How old is your grandmother?”

  One of the things I learned from Beau and Buster’s used-car negotiations was that just because someone asked you a question, you weren’t obligated to answer it.

  “One of your aides came highly recommended by a friend,” I said. “Allison Garvey.”

  “That’s good to hear. And, you know, all of our staff comes highly recommended,” the woman told me.

  “My grandmother is very particular,” I said. “I’d like to meet with Allison. Is she available this afternoon?”

  I heard keyboard keys clicking in the background again.

  “No, I’m sorry but that’s not possible,” she said. “I have several other health care providers who are available, all very qualified, and highly recommended. I’m sure one of them will meet your needs. Now, if I could get some additional information—”

  “I’d rather wait for Allison,” I said.

  “Well, it’s not advisable to delay care,” she told me.

  I had a pretty good idea what was going on.

  “Allison doesn’t work there anymore, does she?” I asked.

  “No, but—”

  I hung up.

  So, after twelve years at Reynolds Health Care and on the heels of Edith Bagley’s death, Allison had suddenly quit her job. Coincidence? I doubted it.

  I spent a few minutes online, found Allison’s home address, punched it into my GPS, and took off.

  I was about to interview my first murder suspect.

  Chapter 11

  I felt good about Allison Garvey as a suspect, but I couldn’t count on her confessing to Edith’s murder right away. I needed another clue, a lead, something, but all I had was a loose end. It would have to do.

  While traffic crept along the 10 freeway, I called Barbara Walker-Pierce.

  “Are you finished with Aunt Edith’s address book?” she asked. “I’d like you to return it as soon as possible.”

  Edith’s address book was way down my priority list of topics to discuss with anyone, but returning it would give me a good excuse to see the crime scene again, though I had no idea what to look for. Maybe I’d missed a clue earlier and it would jump out at me this time.

  “I’m taking it by the house later today,” I said.

  “You’ve learned something definitive?” she asked.

  I didn’t want to tell Barbara that I was certain Edith had been murdered—not yet, anyway. The news could be crushing, even though Barbara suspected it, and I didn’t want her too overcome with emotion to give me the info I needed. Plus hearing the truth might start some kind of clock running in Barbara’s head, increasing her expectation that I solve the crime according to her internal timetable.

  “Why did Edith withdraw a hundred grand from her bank account shortly before her death?” I asked.

  Honestly, I couldn’t see how this tied in with Edith’s murder, but I didn’t have a lot to go on. I had to stretch, find a lead from somewhere. And where better to look than the all-time top motivation for a crime—money?

  “She—she what?”

  From Barbara’s tone, I could tell this was news to her—unwelcome news.

  “Aunt Edith discussed her finances with me routinely. She never mentioned a sizeable expenditure,” Barbara told me. “You’re mistaken.”

  “I saw it on her bank statement,” I said.

  “You saw it?” Barbara huffed. “You gained access to her personal banking records?”

  “Any ideas what she used the money for?” I asked. “A charitable donation? A large purchase?”

  “No, no, there was nothing like that,” Barbara insisted. “Aunt Edith wouldn’t have done something like that without telling me.”

  “Then what would she have done that she wanted kept secret from you?” I asked.

  “Nothing. Absolutely—” Barbara grumbled under her breath. “Darren. Oh, don’t tell me. Don’t tell me she gave Darren money again.”

  “Who’s Darren?”

  “Darren Walker. My nephew. My brother’s son. The family embarrassment.” Barbara spoke the words as if they were bitter on her lips.

  She didn’t say anything else so I figured she was reluctant to air the family’s dirty laundry.

  “We’ve all got one of those in our family,” I said, hoping to create common ground and keep her talking. When she didn’t respond, I pushed a little further. “It sounds as if your nephew caused a lot of problems for everyone.”

  Barbara sighed irritably. “Darren was continually jumping from one idiotic investment scheme to the next, losing every cent. But not his own money, of course. Money he’d gotten from someone else. ”

  “From Edith?” I asked.

  “I can’t believe he had the nerve to ask her for money again,” Barbara said, her anger growing. “After the last time this happened, I told Darren I would make sure he never got another cent from Aunt Edith as long as she lived.”

  I wondered if Darren had decided to get around Barbara and her attempts to block Edith from giving him money. Maybe he’d come up with a better, more reliable, way to get the cash he needed.

  “Was Darren in her will?” I asked.

  “Of course,” Barbara insisted, as if she didn’t understand why I would ask so outrageous a question. “Aunt Edith was close with the family, especially her nieces and nephews, since she had no children of her own. She wouldn’t have done something so heartless as leaving him out of her will.”

  So, it seemed that the only way Darren would get money from Edith was after she was dead.

  I wondered if I’d found another murder suspect.

  ***

  I left the BMW with the valet in the Fisher Joyce garage long enough to package the LaPerla gown and robe and hand it off to the shipping guy, then zipped Carlotta Cain’s dress into a garment bag. As I dropped it into the back of the Beemer, squealing tires sounded in the garage entrance ramp. A few seconds later a Porsche whipped around me and skidded to a stop.

  Dan Kincaid got out. He had on cargo pants, CAT boots and a black T-shirt, and he looked hot. I couldn’t stop staring—not very cool of me, but he had some sort of magnetic pull that I didn’t have the will to fight.

  He must have sensed something, or he was just used to women staring at him, because he turned to me. The slightest hint of a grin turned up one corner of his mouth.

  “Hello, Kansas.”

  He gave me one last lingering look, then walked away.

  I collapsed into the driver’s seat.

  Dan Kincaid had called me “Kansas.” Dan Kincaid, the company fixer, the guy who’d actually killed people. He’d found out where I was from. He’d checked me out. He’d investigated my past. And he’d made sure I knew it.

  He knew I’d lied to him about my reason for being at Edith Bag
ley’s house, and why it mattered to him, I didn’t know. But Dan Kincaid looking over my shoulder was the very last thing I needed.

  I punched Allison Garvey’s home address into the GPS and took off.

  She lived on a street off of Fairfax Avenue in a neighborhood of single family homes, an area well past its prime and destined to soon be cool enough to attract young buyers. The house was an aging Craftsman that a real estate agent would probably call “a handy man’s delight” with overgrown landscaping likely to be termed “mature.”

  I parked in the driveway and rang the doorbell. Inside I heard muted voices, probably from the television. I punched the bell again and finally the door was opened by an older woman wearing a housedress, an apron, and a frown and holding a limp dishtowel. The scent of cooked onions rolled out around her. Three small children were scattered around the living room, watching cartoons.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m here to see Allison.”

  “She doesn’t live here,” the woman told me and pushed the door closed.

  Maybe she thought I was a bill collector.

  I blocked the door with my hand. “I’m here to invite her to Edith Bagley’s memorial service.”

  I’d used that excuse with Edith’s former driver Ike Meador and it seemed to work. I guess it worked with this woman, too, because her expression softened a little.

  I held out one of my business cards. “Barbara Walker-Pierce asked me to come by.”

  Luckily, the woman didn’t ask how I’d gotten Allison’s home address. She took my business card and studied it for a moment then said, “Wait here.”

  She disappeared but didn’t close the door in my face. I heard voices from deeper inside the house and finally Allison appeared. She looked similar to the photo I’d seen of her on the Reynold’s Health Care website, maybe a little older and a little harder looking—no makeup, hair in a careless up-do. She had on faded jeans and a stretched out cardigan over a white tank top. She definitely didn’t look happy to see me.

  Allison joined me on the small porch and closed the front door behind her. She waved my business card at me.

  “That Mrs. Walker-Pierce lady wants me at her aunt’s memorial service?” she asked, more suspicious than flattered by the invitation.