Shop Til You Drop Dead (A Hollis Brannigan Mystery)

by Dorothy Howell

  “The last truck just went out,” the guy told me and nodded to the clock on the wall.

  I glanced at the digital display. Two minutes. I’d missed the cut off by two minutes.

  “You should have gotten here a few minutes earlier,” he told me.

  A few minutes earlier I’d been talking to Barbara Walker-Pierce, imagining my entire life collapsing.

  “Or maybe taken that call later,” he said, nodding toward the garage where, obviously, he’d seen me talking on my phone.

  So, he’d seen me there, laden with items, knowing I had to process them, but didn’t hold the truck for a few more minutes.

  Sure, we all worked at the same place, but we weren’t all on the same team.

  That’s Hollywood.

  Still, it didn’t pay to antagonize the guys in the shipping department. My packages could end up anywhere, upsetting my off-listers and, ultimately, coming back on me.

  “I’ll call in another guy,” he told me, as if he was doing me a big favor. “I’ve got to report it, though.”

  Fisher Joyce, true to their slogan, delivered anything, anytime. But not without noting any lapse by the shoppers on their weekly report that detailed expenses and overtime paid to drivers. That, too, would come back on me.

  “No problem,” I said. “Thanks.”

  I left the shipping department tempted to grab another vehicle from the valet and head for the beach. Something about seeing the ocean, smelling the salt, hearing the surf brought things into perspective, made them seem not so difficult.

  I’d been to the beach often with Brittany before she’d gone back to KCK with Toby. We’d walked along the shoreline, watched the sunset, and made plans for all the fabulous things we’d do, see, and have once we got established here.

  None of those things had happened. I doubted taking time to go to the beach right now would bring them any closer.

  I took the elevator up to the sixth floor thinking about Brittany. I followed her on Facebook. Lots of photos of her and Toby going places and doing things, often with the people who’d been my friends, too, when I’d lived there.

  Things were winding down for the day when I stepped off of the elevator and headed for the investigations department. Employees were shuffling things around on their desks, shutting down their computers, trying to look as if they were putting in a few extra minutes before rushing out the door.

  Meredith had texted me earlier asking me to come by to see her. I figured she’d decided to meet Neil’s parents, after all, and wanted my advice on what to wear, a duty I was very happy to perform—and not just because I wanted something from her, too.

  When I’d taken on Carlotta Cain as a client, I hadn’t asked the investigations unit to do a background check on her; one gown for a new off-lister with a max budget of two hundred bucks didn’t warrant it. Now I wanted to know more about her.

  Seeing her today sleeping on her couch, thinking maybe she was dead, had rattled me. Add that to the odd things she said, her imagined fear that the neighbors were spying on her and trying to break into her house, and her peculiar behavior. It all made me question her mental health.

  The vision of Grandma Pearl popped into my head as I turned a corner onto another long corridor. She was a kick. I loved visiting her in the cabin she lived in 80 miles east of here in the San Bernardino National Forest, surrounded by towering trees, a quiet, serene spot in the mountains. She let Quinn and me plant flowers with her, bake cookies, and walk down to the village where she’d buy us ice cream. We played board games at night, and she told us funny stories about our dad when he was a little boy. Grandma Pearl had been mentally strong until the end, her thoughts clear enough to criticize our mother, and rightfully so.

  That’s why I suspected Carlotta wasn’t well. Maybe it was from living in that musty, gloomy house. Maybe it was from living alone. Maybe it was something entirely different.

  I didn’t want to walk into her house one day, after finally finding the right gown for her on my umpteenth try, and find her dead for real. That meant I had to learn what, exactly, was going on with her. If she did, in fact, have relatives somewhere, they needed to know what shape she was in. If she was penniless—a good possibility, given the budget for the gown she wanted and the condition of her house—something could be done to provide her a clean environment, nutritious food, and maybe even somebody to talk to.

  Of course, none of this was my business. It didn’t fall within the scope of my duties as a personal shopper at Fisher Joyce. But I couldn’t help wondering what might have happened to Grandma Pearl if she’d been in the same physical and mental shape as Carlotta. Her cabin in the mountains was isolated, all the way in California when we lived in Kansas City, hours away, even, from my dad’s job in the San Francisco pharmacy. Who would have looked after Grandma Pearl if she’d needed help?

  I turned the corner into the investigations department. The place was quiet. I spotted Meredith coming out of her supervisor’s office. She saw me at the same moment.

  “There you are,” she said, smiling and walking over. “I was afraid you wouldn’t make it before I had to leave.”

  “Running a little behind,” I said. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

  “Come on. I’ve got something to show you,” she said, as we headed down the aisle. “What do you need?”

  “Do you remember Carlotta Cain?” I asked.

  She grinned. “One of your awesome off-listers? Who could forget?”

  “I think she’s going to be a bigger client than I’d first thought,” I said. “Can you do a complete background search on her?”

  I knew it was something of a lie, and I wasn’t happy about having to tell it, but I had no other way of obtaining the information.

  “No problem.”

  At the door to her office, Meredith stopped, put her hand on the knob, and gave me a huge smile.

  “Are you ready?” she asked, her smile growing wider.

  I couldn’t help frowning. “What’s going on?”

  “I told you, I have something to show you.” She giggled, then lowered her voice. “But don’t scream.”

  Meredith pushed the door open but didn’t walk into her office. Instead she flung out her arm in a grand presentation. “Ta-da!”

  I glanced into her office, didn’t see anything, and looked at her again.

  “Go in,” she said, giddy with excitement.

  Stepping inside I spotted a small brown and white dog lying under her desk. I froze. My mouth flew open but no words came open.

  “It’s Gizmo,” Meredith declared.

  I gasped.

  “Gizmo. The dog that got lost. The case that Andy Edmonds gave you. I called the shelter today, and when they told me your client hadn’t picked her up yet I went and got her myself.” Meredith beamed with pride. “Now you can take her back in person. The client will love you.”

  I couldn’t say anything.

  “She’s the sweetest little thing.” Meredith crooned as she lifted the dog into her arms and cuddled her close. “Your client must have been super busy if she hadn’t gotten to the shelter to pick her up yet. I guess she’s out of town, or something?”

  I managed a head nod.

  “I took Gizmo to the girls in the pet-sitting department and had her checked out,” Meredith said. “She’s perfectly healthy. They gave her this awesome new collar and leash, and treated her to an extra-long bath with strawberry shampoo so she smells great.”

  Gizmo snuggled against Meredith’s neck, then licked her chin.

  “She’s such a good little doggie I hate to part with her,” she said. “But she belongs with her real mommy. So, here.”

  Meredith deposited the dog into my arms and it sniffed my face. Yes, that was strawberries, all right.

  “Won’t your client be surprised?” Meredith said.

  “I’m a … I’m a little surprised myself.”

  She clipped a leash onto the collar and handed it to me. “
I know you’re anxious to take her back to her owner.”

  “Well …”

  “I’ve got to go.” Meredith grabbed her handbag from her desk drawer and led the way out of her office, closing the door firmly behind us. “You two have a fun time.”

  She headed down the aisle, leaving me standing there, holding the dog. It was just as well Meredith didn’t wait for me. I couldn’t move.

  What was I supposed to do with a dog? This dog? The dog that Barbara Walker-Pierce never owned. The dog that was never missing.

  I looked down at her cradled in my arms. She was a tiny dog, no more than five pounds, white with a few brown spots, and big, brown ears.

  “You are not what I need right now,” I said.

  Gizmo whimpered and licked my cheek.

  I tucked her under my arm—I figured having her on her leash would attract too much attention—and took the elevator down to the parking garage. I had no one to leave her with, and things I had to take care of. I had no choice but to take her with me.

  Since I was technically off duty right now I wasn’t entitled to the use of one of the company’s awesome vehicles. But I’d promised Barbara I’d return Edith’s address book, and I couldn’t roll up to the mansion on June Street in Hancock Park in my seven-year-old Chevy Malibu.

  The valet gave me a questioning look when I loaded Gizmo into the Beemer with me. I took off before he could ask the question I was sure he was dying to know the answer to, and stopped at the top of the garage exit ramp.

  “Listen,” I said. Gizmo, standing in the passenger seat, looked up at me. “Don’t you dare pee in this car. Understand?”

  She inched forward and licked my elbow. I shook her off and headed toward June Street. She hopped around in the passenger seat as we crept through traffic, then stood on her hind legs and looked out the window for a while before finally settling down.

  A few blocks from the Bagley house I pulled into the parking lot of a strip mall, got out my phone, and took pictures of every page in Edith’s address book. I’d been through it over and over, and hadn’t found anything more that I thought would be useful in solving Edith’s murder. Yet somewhere in there might lurk a clue, a lead, a suspect, something I’d overlooked.

  I turned onto June Street. The neighborhood was quiet, as always. Two people were walking a trio of dogs, which caused Gizmo to press her nose to the window and growl softly. A health-care worker dressed in pink scrubs ambled down the sidewalk. Near the corner, a landscaping crew was busy mowing the lawn, and in the driveway I spotted a van from Pro-One Security. Life, as usual, in Hancock Park.

  I slowed as I cruised past the home of the guy—Russell, I think his name was—who’d been trying to sell the cloned Chevelle to the nerdy guy who had no clue what he was buying. No sign of the car now. I wondered if Russell had found someone to push it off on, or if he’d given up.

  Dan Kincaid slammed into my thoughts. I’d helped him out with info on that car, making him look good and saving his client a ton of money. How had he repaid me? By checking me out, investigating me, nosing into my business.

  I guess that was Hollywood, too.

  A car was parked in the driveway at Edith Bagley’s house, a brand new, black Mercedes GT-Class convertible that went for around one-hundred-fifty grand. I hadn’t seen it here before.

  The man who I figured was the owner stood on the front porch talking to Genevieve, the front door closed behind her, her hand on the knob. I pulled in at the curb ahead of a van from a cleaning service, and shut down the engine. I hadn’t called ahead to let Genevieve know I was stopping by so I stayed in the car and waited to see what was unfolding.

  The guy looked as if he was mid-thirties, wearing expensive slacks and a sport coat, his shirt collar open. Maybe he was handsome. I couldn’t say for sure, given the scowl on his face.

  Genevieve didn’t look any happier. She struggled to keep an even expression as she shook her head. He kept talking. She stood firm about whatever they were disagreeing over. Finally, the guy whipped around, jumped into the car, screeched out of the driveway and down the street. Genevieve heaved a sigh of relief.

  I grabbed my things, opened my car door, and tugged Gizmo out by her leash. Genevieve spotted me and waited on the porch.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, as I climbed the steps.

  Her gaze jumped to the street for a few seconds before turning to me.

  “Family,” she muttered.

  I could see the confrontation had shaken her, despite the strong front she’d projected.

  “Worthless, is what they are. They come crawling out of the woodwork at a time like this,” she said. “Shows who they really are.”

  I glanced down the street, didn’t see the Mercedes cruising back, and turned to Genevieve again.

  “Who was that?” I asked.

  “Miss Edith’s nephew.” Genevieve spit out the words and grimaced as if they left a sour taste in her mouth.

  “Darren Walker,” I realized, and remembered Barbara mentioning him. “The family embarrassment.”

  “You got that right.” She heaved a heavy sigh. “Here I am trying to get everything ready for Miss Edith’s memorial service next week. I’ve got a cleaning crew here who doesn’t seem to know what the word clean really means. I’ve got landscapers coming, the caterer to accommodate, and an event planner who never met Miss Edith and doesn’t understand the first thing about what she’d want or like. And that’s not the half of it.”

  I could see she was really stressed, and rightfully so.

  “And then here comes Darren,” Genevieve said, flinging her hand toward the driveway. “Wanting to come into the house. Telling me Miss Edith left things for him and he wants them. Insisting I let him in, let him roam through the place, walk away with anything he claims is his.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said. “He actually thought he could do that?”

  “I told him no. No, sir. No, siree. I was not letting anybody into Miss Edith’s home unless Miss Barbara herself tells me it’s all right.” Genevieve crossed her arms over her chest. “And that’s all there is to it.”

  “Good for you,” I said.

  She gave an emphatic nod and murmured a brisk harrumph. After a few seconds, she calmed a little and said, “Now, what can I do for you?”

  Genevieve already had so much on her, I didn’t want to add to her duties.

  “Mrs. Walker-Pierce asked me to return Miss Edith’s address book,” I said. “But I can see that my timing is not the best. You’ve got your hands full.”

  She exhaled heavily. “I do.”

  “I’ll come back tomorrow,” I offered.

  When I’d been here before Genevieve hadn’t wanted me upstairs alone, which I understood. I knew she wouldn’t want that now, either, especially on the heels of Darren trying to run over her to get inside.

  “Would tomorrow be okay?” I asked.

  Genevieve glanced down at Gizmo, and a shadow of a frown crossed her face. She had a cleaning crew inside, working. I was sure the last thing she wanted was a dog inside, too.

  Yes, my timing was really bad today.

  “Tomorrow would be fine. I would appreciate it. Thank you.” Her expression soured again. “Now, if that Darren will stay away too.”

  I told her goodbye and headed back to the car, Gizmo trotting along beside me.

  I whipped a U-turn and drove back down June Street, slowing as I passed the Pro-One Security van I’d spotted earlier. The rear doors were open and two technicians sorted through the equipment inside. One of them looked like Zach, the guy I’d talked to about the alarm malfunction on Edith’s window, but I couldn’t be sure.

  When I stopped at the corner, waiting for traffic to clear, my conversation with Zach replayed in my mind. He’d seemed like an okay guy and, presumably, he’d passed some kind of background check before being hired at Pro-One. But what if something else was going on with him?

  How did I know for sure that he’d actually told Edith a
bout the malfunctioning window alarm? Had he really given her a copy of the report? Perhaps that explained why Barbara hadn’t known there was a problem with the alarm until she came across the bill, and why it had never been repaired.

  And if Zach knew the alarm on Edith’s window wasn’t working, could he have come back, climbed inside, gone through the house? Had he, perhaps, ended up in Edith’s bedroom, stumbled onto the secret room, startled her awake, then silenced her?

  Beside me, Gizmo tapped her nose against my elbow and tilted her head a little.

  “Yes, I know it’s a stretch,” I admitted. “But it could have happened.”

  Darren Walker, the perpetually broke family embarrassment, seemed like a more viable suspect. He could very well have known about Edith’s secret room for years, even if he hadn’t known what was inside the suitcase. He could have decided to check it out—or maybe Edith, in a confused moment, had told him about it. He could have killed her while attempting to retrieve it, gotten scared and run off without taking the money. Was that what prompted him to try and gain access to the house now?

  It was possible. It was also possible that Zach had killed her.

  Seemed I had two more suspects. Now, if I only had some evidence.

  Chapter 15

  Everybody wanted something for the weekend. Something to wear on a special date to a fabulous restaurant, or for a getaway to a romantic locale, places that I had no hope of going—not this weekend, anyway. But, still, all those people wanted me to shop for them here at the last minute on Friday morning, and make their dream come true.

  Right now my dream was to keep my job.

  I whipped into the employee parking area, grabbed my things, and jumped out of my car as my cell phone rang. Gizmo eyed the pavement for a few seconds before finally hopping down.

  So far today she’d demonstrated absolutely no concern that I had to be at work on time. She’d dallied over her breakfast, after I’d bought her the most expensive food and two kinds of treats last night, then took her own sweet time smelling absolutely everything along my street when I’d walked her this morning.