I heaved a mental sigh of relief. Finally.
“So, when’s the event?” I asked.
“What event?” she asked, running her fingers along the rows of beads on the bodice. “Oh. Do you mean where I’ll wear the gown? I told you. I intend to be buried in it.”
I froze. “What?”
Carlotta’s smile widened. “Yes, this will look lovely as I lay there for all the world to see.”
“What?” A wave of emotion jolted me, the idea deplorable, unconscionable, intolerable.
“Why are you upset? I explained that I—”
“No. No you didn’t! And I’m not providing you with a dress to be buried in!”
I jerked the gown out of her hand, grabbed the garment bag, and ran out of the living room. Carlotta said something but I ignored her. I got in my car and tore out of the driveway.
I couldn’t—wouldn’t—be a party to her death, as if dying were something to be excited about, to look forward to. I’d lost Grandma Pearl; my dad had vacated my life years ago; my mom had taken off to an artists’ colony; my sister had disappeared and, for all I knew, was dead. I wasn’t going to be part of Carlotta’s excitement about the end of her life.
Before I’d driven three blocks my cell phone chimed. I swung over to the curb. My hands shook as I read the text message. It was from Louise, instructing me to return to the office immediately. Well, it sure hadn’t taken Carlotta long to complain about me.
“Complain all you want,” I mumbled. “I’m not doing it.”
Still, I couldn’t ignore Louise’s order to report to her; she probably had a timer running, counting down the minutes until I got back to the office. That meant I couldn’t swing by Allison’s house or talk to Genevieve now, which sent a wave of anxiety through me, wondering what I was going to tell Barbara when she called.
I dashed off a text message to Louise explaining that I had to stop by the shipping department, and that I’d report to her office as soon my off-listers’ packages were sent. She shot back another message reminding me that she’d told me to come immediately.
My belly felt queasy. Maybe Carlotta wasn’t the only person who’d complained. Maybe Barbara had finally had enough and called the head of the investigations department.
With visions of getting fired blazing in my head, and mentally fumbling through as many scenarios as I could come up with to explain my actions, I drove back to Fisher Joyce. Trent was still on duty so he let me pull the Beemer off to the side and lock it up since it was loaded with about five grand in client merchandise.
Up on six I spotted Louise in her glass-walled office, her knee jackhammering, her phone clenched between her ear and shoulder while she fiddled with her mouse and dug through a lower desk drawer. No one was in the office with her. I didn’t know if that was a good—or a bad—sign.
I stopped in the doorway and she glanced up.
“Client. Requested you. Interview room four,” she barked. “Back here afterward.”
Easily, I could have collapsed. I wasn’t getting fired. I wasn’t even in trouble. A new client had arrived and requested me by name. I was somewhere between intrigued—I’d never been called into the office for a new client before—and annoyed for the same reason. I had way too much to do today to come back to the office on a moment’s notice to meet an off-lister. Yet obviously, this was a client with a great deal of potential or Louise wouldn’t have insisted I return immediately. Maybe my reputation was climbing in the eyes of Fisher Joyce.
I ducked into the ladies room, freshened my makeup and hair, wished I had time to run by the wardrobe department for a better outfit, then hurried to interview room four. As I turned the corner I spotted Dan Kincaid standing in the doorway, talking to my new client inside. He must have glimpsed me from the corner of his eye because he stepped back and glared at me. Not his usual glare; this was something different. He walked away.
I wondered for a moment if Dan had recommended this new client to Fisher Joyce, even though he didn’t seem like the personal shopper kind of guy.
I tugged down my jacket and squared my shoulders, anxious to make a good impression, and stepped inside.
Everything about Fisher Joyce was designed to impress our clients, and the interview rooms were no exception. Like all the others, this one held a conference table with six chairs, a seating group, and was decorated with chic, elegant furnishings in shades of gray and blue. All of which was barely noticeable given the floor-to-ceiling window that allowed a spectacular view of Los Angeles.
Today, though, this room held something even more spectacular. My breath caught. Standing beside the conference table was a man I’d never seen before; I’d have certainly remembered. Mid-thirties probably, not exactly drop-dead gorgeous, but handsome. Light brown hair, a good build, and tall, just as tall as Dan Kincaid.
I took a look at his clothing—sport coat, shirt, and tie that I figured his mother had given him for Christmas one year—and knew he was definitely an off-lister, but one who was on his way up in the world.
A newly minted executive, maybe. Or a screenwriter who’d just sold the next blockbuster. Perhaps a fresh-faced actor who’d just landed the coveted lead in a superhero movie.
Whoever this guy was, he was definitely easy on the eye. I took a deep breath and walked closer.
“Hello,” I said. “I’m Hollis Brannigan.”
Instead of extending his hand to shake, he drew his wallet from the inside pocket of his sport coat and flipped it open.
“I’m Detective Mitch Sullivan, LAPD.”
I stared down at the badge he displayed, then looked up at him again.
“You’re—you’re who?”
“I’m investigating a murder,” he told me.
“I—I don’t understand,” I said, nodding in the direction of the hallway. “My supervisor told me you were a new client.”
“I was being discreet.” He tucked his badge into his pocket. “Where were you yesterday afternoon?”
I wasn’t completely lost, but neither did I know exactly what was going on. This guy was a homicide detective? And he was asking where I was yesterday? Asking for my alibi? Because he was investigating a murder?
Edith Bagley’s murder?
Barbara Walker-Pierce must have turned the case over to the LAPD. I thought she’d give me more time. I thought she’d at least have let me know she was doing it.
“Let’s sit down.” Detective Sullivan closed the door and pulled out chairs on opposite sides of the conference table.
I didn’t want to sit down. I thought better on my feet. But I didn’t want a homicide detective to know I had to do a lot of deep thinking just to speak with him. That sort of thing made people look guilty, didn’t it?
And I was guilty—guilty of taking on a case I wasn’t qualified to handle; guilty of withholding information from Barbara Walker-Pierce; guilty of shirking my shopping duties here at Fisher Joyce, misusing resources, dragging Meredith and the girls in the wardrobe department in with me.
I plopped down in the chair.
Detective Sullivan sat and opened the folder on the table in front of him.
If Barbara Walker-Pierce had called the police about her aunt’s death, she’d surely called the Fisher Joyce investigations department and told them to back off. I could imagine the chaos that had ensured since there was no file on a murder investigation, only a missing-dog case. Andy Edmund would have been called in, questioned, and would not have wasted a nanosecond throwing me in front of that huge, fast moving bus.
Was that why Dan had been here talking to the detective? Had he somehow found out about Edith’s murder and my involvement? I’m sure he suspected something the day I’d seen him across the street from Edith’s house with the classic car, and when he’d asked me what I was doing at there.
The next image that zoomed into my head was of Louise Thornton waiting in her office with my notice of termination and final paycheck in her hand. Why else would she have told me to report
back to her when I was finished here?
Unemployment line and homeless shelter—here I come.
“How well did you know Allison Garvey?” Detective Sullivan asked.
“Allison?” I gasped and sat up straighter. “Allison is … dead?”
“Murdered.”
Chapter 17
My mouth flew open and I fell back in my chair.
“Yesterday afternoon,” Detective Sullivan said.
I still couldn’t take it in. “What happened?”
“She was struck by a vehicle.”
“So it was an accident?”
He shook his head. “Witnesses at the scene stated the suspect vehicle pulled away from the curb and struck her at a high rate of speed in the crosswalk near her home.”
The ugly picture of the incident bloomed in my head. I pushed it away.
This had happened less than twenty-four hours ago, and already they’d tied her death to me and to Edith Bagley’s murder.
“Where were you yesterday?” he asked.
Or had they? Now I was genuinely confused.
“Miss Brannigan?” The detective gave me a friendly little smile. “Where were you?”
“What makes you think I had anything to do with this?” I asked.
Detective Sullivan shuffled through a few papers inside the folder. “Your business card was found in the victim’s pocket.”
So the police hadn’t found out about my connection to Allison through Barbara. They didn’t know about Edith’s murder.
“What kind of car was it?” I asked.
He glanced at one of the papers inside the folder. “Something old and dark colored is the only description we got.”
“No traffic cameras at the intersection?”
“We did already think of that.” He gave me an indulgent smile. “And no, there were no cameras that were operational.”
I guess his snotty remark was meant to impress me, somehow. I wasn’t impressed.
“Dark? Navy blue or black?” I wondered, too, if it was a Mustang or maybe a Camaro, but managed not to ask.
His indulgent smile morphed into a frown. “How did you know?”
“Lucky guess.”
“If you’re not willing to cooperate with the investigation, Miss Brannigan, it will look bad for you.”
“You know, I did already think of that,” I said, and gave him an indulgent smile of my own. “Yesterday I was shopping. That’s what I do here. I’m a personal shopper.”
He shrugged as if he’d heard of the job but didn’t really understand it—or want to.
“And what was your connection to Allison Garvey?” he asked.
I knew he wouldn’t believe that I shopped for someone in Allison’s income bracket. I knew I couldn’t tell him I was investigating a murder for Barbara Walker-Pierce.
I also knew it wasn’t a good idea to lie to the police.
“She was the night nurse for an elderly client who recently passed away,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “There’s a memorial service I wanted her to know about.”
Detective Sullivan gazed at me, unblinking. I gazed right back. Once again, my uncles Beau and Buster would have been proud of my used-car-salesman poker face.
The detective kept his gaze on me as he drew a small notebook from the inside pocket of his sport coat and wrote something down.
“And where were you yesterday afternoon, exactly?” he asked.
Then it hit me—did he think I’d murdered Allison?
“I didn’t kill her,” I told him. I said it kind of loud. I couldn’t help it. I was upset, startled, and more than slightly outraged that he suspected me of killing anyone, especially Allison.
“You met with the victim. At her house. Did you have an argument with her?” he asked, leaning closer. “Was there a dispute over something?”
“No,” I said. “Look, I had nothing to do with her death. I didn’t even know she’d been murdered.”
Detective Sullivan eased back but kept his gaze on me.
“I don’t know anything about this,” I told him.
“I’ll ask you again and advise you that it would be to your advantage to cooperate. Where were you yesterday afternoon?”
“I was—”
I was at Edith Bagley’s home talking to Genevieve about Barbara Walker-Pierce’s nephew, whom I’d pegged as a murder suspect. I was eyeing the Pro-One van down the block thinking that Zach, or someone else at the security firm, could have murdered Edith. I was at Vista Village trying to get information out of Sadie, sidetracked by caregivers Phil and Lisa and that wheelchair-bound man Drew Arrington. I was at Allison’s house trying to pry info out of her about Edith’s visits to the retirement home. I was trying to solve a murder.
“Miss Brannigan?” the detective asked.
A murder that nobody was supposed to know about and I wasn’t supposed to be involved in. A murder that I’d be fired over, if anyone found out what I was doing. Not to mention Barbara Walker-Pierce would be furious, Edith Bagley’s library would be jeopardized, and Fisher Joyce would be ruined and smothered with lawsuits for the next decade.
“I was shopping for my clients,” I told him.
Detective Sullivan flipped to a new page in his notebook, ready to take notes. “Where?”
“A number of places,” I said.
“I’ll need a list of places and times,” he told me. “Everywhere you were.”
I didn’t want to give him that information, sure he would see the time gaps in my day and ask where I’d been. The best I could hope to do was distract him, delay things.
“I needed jeans. Roberto Cavalli jeans, stonewash,” I said. “My client had a baby a few months ago so she needed a size eight. She wasn’t happy about it, of course, but it takes a while to shed the baby weight, you know. Or maybe you don’t know. Do you have children, Detective? Anyway, I also needed a wine basket. Wine baskets are always tricky. The place I usually get them is on Melrose, but when I got there they didn’t have what I wanted so I had to try another shop, this one—”
“That’s fine. Thank you, Miss Brannigan.” He shoved his notebook back into his pocket. “Just get me a list of everything you did. Names, places, times. I’ll need it by the end of the day.”
“Actually, now that I think about it, that information is probably confidential. I’m not sure I’m at liberty to divulge anything relating to one of my clients,” I said with a half-hearted apologetic smile.
His gaze turned harsh. “Do I need to remind you this is a murder investigation?”
“I’ll have to speak with my supervisor,” I said.
“I need it today,” he told me again.
There was, of course, no way I was going to get the information to him today—or any other day, if I could help it.
“I’ll ask my supervisor to get on it immediately,” I said, then gave him a sad little smile. “She’ll have to run it by legal, of course. You know how lawyers are. I can’t imagine they’ll get to it until … tomorrow, maybe.”
Detective Sullivan glared at me then slapped a business card onto the conference table. “Call me as soon as it’s available.”
I looked at the card, but didn’t pick it up.
He snatched the folder from the table and stalked to the door. I was about to heave a sigh of relief when I saw him stop and look back. I thought he was going to tell me not to leave town. Instead, he glared at me. I rose from my chair and glared back.
“Tomorrow,” he told me.
“I understand.”
He gave me one last hard look, then left. I wanted to collapse into a chair but couldn’t. I had to go to Louise’s office. I didn’t know what, exactly, she wanted. Hopefully it was to congratulate me on the new client I’d brought in. I grabbed Detective Sullivan’s business card and dropped it into my tote.
I didn’t want to walk the hallway until I’d given him time to make it to the elevator and leave, and while I didn’t especially like him, I hoped he was good e
nough at his job to find Allison’s killer.
A murderer was out there. Was it the same person who’d murdered Edith Bagley? Did they know about me? Was I in danger?
Maybe.
I headed down the hallway toward Louise’s office, replaying in my head my run-in with Detective Sullivan.
Allison Garvey was dead. Killed. Murdered. How was that possible? Who would have done it? And why? Was her death tied to Edith’s murder? Or was this just an incredible coincidence?
The detective had told me that witnesses at the scene reported that the suspect vehicle was an older, dark car. Was it the same one that the June Street neighbor had reported seeing the week before Edith died?
Now that I had a little distance from the interview, I didn’t see how Detective Sullivan could actually think I was responsible for Allison’s death. He’d found my business card in her pocket. So what? Likely he’d come here on a routine, check-the-box, fact-finding mission, and I’d aroused his suspicion by being so evasive. Not a good move on my part. Now he might start digging further, trying to come up with some evidence, and really come after me.
Everybody had gone home for the night when I walked into the hospitality department. For a quick moment I hoped that Louise had left as well. Putting off until Monday whatever she wanted to tell me would be a great way to end this day and this week.
But I spotted her sitting at her desk in her glass-walled office. For once she wasn’t doing a half dozen things at once. She sat back in her chair, listening—and frowning—as Dan Kincaid stood in front of her.
My footsteps slowed.
What was Dan doing here, talking to Louise after the close of business on a Friday night? And what was he saying that had her scowling at his every word?
Dan had been talking to Detective Sullivan. I realized now that their conversation had been casual. They knew each other. Dan and the detective were friends. That meant Detective Sullivan must have told Dan why he was here. Despite the detective’s efforts to be discreet about our meeting, he’d told Dan everything, and now Dan was repeating it to Louise. Was he including his suspicion of my unauthorized visit to Edith’s June Street house?
Shop Til You Drop Dead (A Hollis Brannigan Mystery) Page 14
