Shop Til You Drop Dead (A Hollis Brannigan Mystery)

by Dorothy Howell

  My phone chimed as I stepped inside the store. Another order from an off-lister today would throw me way behind, and make it difficult to get back to Fisher Joyce in time for the afternoon delivery run. My thoughts shot off in a different direction when I saw the name of the car service Ike Meador worked for on the ID screen. I answered and reminded him who I was and where we’d met.

  “Oh, yeah. Sure, sure. I remember you.”

  He sounded rushed, which made me think the guy who owned the place was standing next to him, giving him stink-eye for making a personal call on the company phone and on company time.

  “You mentioned you took Edith Bagley to a house in Pasadena,” I said. “What was the address?”

  He didn’t answer for a few seconds then said, “What do you want to know that for?”

  Now he didn’t sound worried for his job, he sounded suspicious of me.

  “I’m still tracking down Edith’s friends to invite to the memorial service.” I’d told that lie so many times I was starting to feel like it was true.

  Ike was quiet for a while longer, tempting me to jump in with a longer, more detailed explanation. I held my tongue.

  “I don’t know the people,” he said. “Miss Edith, she never went inside. We didn’t even stop, just drove past kind of slow.”

  “Mrs. Walker-Pierce doesn’t want to offend anyone by not inviting them to the memorial service,” I said. “Miss Edith wouldn’t like that.”

  “Well, okay. Okay. I guess it wouldn’t hurt nothing for you to go by there and ask,” he said. “But you make sure they already know about Miss Edith’s passing. Don’t spring it on them. Don’t go upsetting people.”

  “I’ll be very sensitive.”

  I put my phone on speaker and tapped the address he gave me into my notes.

  “So when is it?” Ike asked. “When’s the service?”

  Barbara hadn’t given me an exact date when we’d last spoken, only that it was coming up soon. I felt certain she would invite Ike.

  “Details are being finalized now. You should hear something definite soon. Thanks for your help.” I ended the call.

  The sales clerk at the register shot me a look, as if offended that I was on my phone instead of pumping up her commission by buying something. I stepped outside and called Meredith.

  “Hey, girl, how you doing?” she asked. “Oh my God, I’m so glad you called. It’s like a morgue in this place.”

  Sitting in her tiny office all day, alone, with nobody to talk to and nothing to do but work, made her really chatty. I couldn’t blame her.

  “What’s going on out in the world?” she asked.

  I was tempted to tell her that Mitch Sullivan had showed up and we’d had coffee, but I didn’t want to have to explain how we’d met.

  “The usual,” I told her. “I’m at The Grove spending an insane amount of other people’s money.”

  “Cool. What have you bought?”

  “Baby clothes, matching pajamas, and six identical pairs of boots.”

  “Six pair? Why would anybody want six identical pairs of boots?”

  “Beats me.”

  “How’s Gizmo?” she asked.

  Oh, yes, the dog. I’d forgotten about her. Again. I probably should call my neighbor and check on her.

  I didn’t want to have to explain that to Meredith, either.

  “She’s good, settling in, getting adjusted,” I said, then pressed on before she could ask for more info. “Listen, Meredith, could you do a property search for me?”

  “Sure.”

  I gave her the address Ike had provided and heard her tapping on her keyboard.

  “Is this about your sister?” she asked. “Because I checked. I didn’t find anything.”

  “No, this is something else.”

  “Andy didn’t stick you with another missing dog case, did he?”

  I certainly didn’t want to explain that, either.

  “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask,” I said. “How are things with you and Neil?”

  “The same … only, I don’t know. Maybe cooling off some,” Meredith said.

  “Did something happen?”

  “Not really. Well, kind of. I can’t get into it now,” she said. “Okay, here’s the info on that address. I’ll text you the link.”

  “Great. Thanks,” I said. “And we need to get together. I need to know what’s going on with you and Neil.”

  “Sounds good.”

  We ended the call and my phone chimed. It wasn’t the text from Meredith. It was from Louise wanting a progress report. I stared at her message, annoyed, even though I’d brought this on myself. I dashed off a quick update, leaving out my visit with Mitch, and sent it.

  When I went back into Crate & Barrel, the sales clerk who’d given me stink-eye before was more than happy to handle my purchase of wine glasses and package them with care after she spotted my Fisher Joyce corporate card. I signed away two hundred bucks and headed for the kids’ Pottery Barn.

  I hadn’t done a lot of shopping for children so I wasn’t up to speed on the latest trends. Luckily my off-lister had sent a detailed explanation of exactly the type of bedding she wanted. Most notable was that she required two of everything, which meant that not only was she soon to be a new mom, she had twins on the way. I envisioned returning her purchases over and over while she decided exactly what looked best in the nursery—until the twins were born, when she’d be lucky to have time to brush her hair.

  I explained to the sales clerk that I needed bedding for baby cribs. Per my off-lister’s request, the fabric had to be organic, eco-friendly, harvested from a sustainably managed forest, and meet social responsibility standards.

  Obviously, I wasn’t the first person to make such a request. The clerk found exactly what I needed, with the added bonus that everything was machine washable. Seven hundred dollars later, I left the store.

  I dropped my purchases at the concierge desk, then hit Nordstrom and checked out the business suit Gloria Wyatt was considering. I decided it was perfect for her, bought it, and added it to my cache at the concierge.

  According to the shopping list in my head, I was finished for the day but I pulled out my phone to check. As I thumbed through the messages, the one from Meredith jumped out at me, the one with the link to the property search I’d asked her to run.

  I checked the rest of my messages and saw that yes, I’d finished my shopping list for the day. My official duties were completed, but I still had some personal business to take care of.

  Ike Meador had given me the address of the house Edith had driven past regularly. I wanted to see it. I didn’t know what was there, if it would add anything to my investigation, or give me any sort of insight into finding her murderer, but I had to go. I was desperate for a lead or a clue, anything that might help me find Edith’s murderer.

  I checked the time on my phone. Mid-afternoon. Traffic wasn’t bad now, but if I waited longer it would start building, making the drive out to Pasadena a long, slow one. Yet going there now meant I’d likely miss the afternoon cutoff for package delivery at Fisher Joyce.

  My choice was easy. I got my car from the parking garage, stopped at the concierge desk and loaded my purchases, tapped the Pasadena address into my GPS, and headed for the freeway.

  The drive on the 101, then the 110 was mindless, leaving me time to think. Mitch popped into my head. I didn’t exactly know what to make of his unofficial quasi social visit today. That made me think of Dan and how he’d showed up at my apartment out of the blue. I’d spent time with both of them. Both claimed to be suspicious of me. Neither had asked me out.

  Well, Dan had, in a way. He claimed he’d asked Louise if I’d help him shop for a gift for his grandparents. I wasn’t sure I really believed it, yet I couldn’t imagine what his other motive might be.

  Mitch and Dan, their friendship, the two different paths they’d taken made me think of Carlotta Cain and Edith Bagley. They seemed very different, yet in some ways
they were a lot alike. They were about the same age, had grown up with the same cultural issues and social mores. Neither had children. Both had careers—Carlotta, in the entertainment industry, and Edith with her philanthropic endeavors. They’d taken different paths in life but they weren’t so different, really.

  The GPS announced my exit onto Orange Grove Avenue, then had me wind through residential streets for several blocks. The neighborhood was old, settled. The homes were mostly small, with mature landscaping. Nothing in the area had been torn down and replaced with an oversized contemporary house that I’d seen so often in Los Angeles.

  I found the home I was looking for, situated on a corner lot. I drove by once and checked it out, then circled back and parked at the curb on the other side of the street.

  It was a Craftsman-style home that looked small from the front, but went deep into the lot. Its once-yellow paint had faded. The front lawn needed attention as did the peeling, white picket fence. The double doors on the detached garage stood open. No cars were inside, adding to the abandoned look of the place.

  Major renovation was underway. Two vans were in the driveway, one from a roofer, the other from a plumbing company. The front door stood open. Repairmen went in and out.

  Ike Meador hadn’t mentioned that construction was in progress, so I figured he hadn’t known. It must have been a while since Edith had asked him to bring her here.

  Then something occurred to me. Barbara had told me Edith was footing the bill for the renovations to a house belonging to an elderly gentleman in need, and that the property was to be sold.

  This was the house, I realized. This was the house Edith had spent the hundred grand on that she’d taken out of her bank.

  But why would Edith have spent that kind of money fixing up this particular house? Barbara had explained it was one of Edith’s charitable acts, but it seemed to me like a lot of cash to put into a single good cause.

  And was any of this even remotely related to the fifty-grand and the handgun hidden in Edith’s secret room, or her murder?

  I didn’t see how, but I had one last-ditch bit of info that might tell me something.

  I pulled my phone out of my tote and accessed the property search Meredith had done. There were no liens recorded against the place. The taxes were current. It was vested to one Andrew Arrington, as his sole and separate property. The chain of ownership indicated he’d taken title to the house several years ago from one Mildred Arrington upon her death.

  Something about this seemed familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what it was. I thought back over the past few days, hoping to jar a recollection lose. Conversations with everyone connected to Edith sped through my mind until I finally hit on something.

  Andrew Arrington. Was he Drew Arrington? The man in the wheelchair I’d seen at Vista Village when I’d visited Sadie?

  She’d told me the staff there considered him difficult because he insisted on being addressed formally. Drew, she said, felt he deserved special treatment because of his connection to Edith.

  If what I suspected was true, Drew and Edith were connected, all right. One hundred grand connected, which meant this wasn’t simply one of Edith’s charity cases. It couldn’t be. Not for that kind of money, and not considering that Edith had regularly made Ike drive her past the house.

  Edith hadn’t left her home very often in the weeks before her death and Drew was confined to a wheelchair in a retirement home. So whatever had gone on between them had happened a long time ago.

  I had to find out what it was.

  Chapter 22

  I made quick work of packaging my purchases in the prep room when I got back to Fisher Joyce. I’d missed the afternoon delivery cutoff, but at this point the company having to pay the drivers extra for late deliveries was the least of my problems.

  Normally, I would have gone to my cubicle and sat there until the office closed on the chance a late, rush order came in. Not today.

  Carlotta Cain hadn’t complained about me yet, so Louise didn’t know I’d refused to shop for her. That meant I could use Carlotta for cover. I hurried back to the valet booth and hopped back into the BMW I’d asked them to hold for me, and headed for June Street.

  Things were hopping in the neighborhood. A dog walker, a home health-care provider in scrubs, and two gardening crews were out. The Pro-One Security van I’d noticed a few days ago was still parked at a house near the corner. I wondered again if that guy Zach I’d talked to at their store was there. I slowed but didn’t see him.

  Thankfully, Barbara’s Mercedes wasn’t in the driveway. I didn’t want to deal with the confrontation I was sure was coming. Two vans were parked at the curb, a catering company and a cleaning service, along with a landscaper’s truck. Genevieve probably still had her hands full overseeing prep for the memorial service. I hoped so, anyway.

  I pulled into the driveway, grabbed my tote, dashed up to the door, and rang the bell. I watched the street as I waited, checking out the cars that drove by, resisting the urge to hit the bell again.

  The door finally opened. Genevieve looked slightly annoyed until she recognized me, then managed a sincere smile and stepped back, inviting me in.

  “Rough day?” I asked.

  “Like you wouldn’t believe,” she declared, shaking her head and throwing out both hands. “Miss Barbara came by and had a fit. A fit, I tell you. I didn’t blame her one bit. Those service people who were here last week getting things ready had done a terrible job. I called Miss Barbara and told her. Let me tell you, she lit a fire under those people.”

  I glanced down the hallway toward the rear of the house where all the work was taking place and saw several service people moving around.

  “Better this time?” I asked.

  “There’s a whole new crew back there. They’ve got the kitchen torn apart scrubbing every inch of the place, and bringing in everything they’ll need for the service on Friday.”

  “The service will be on the rear lawn?” I figured it was likely, given the landscaper’s truck parked out front.

  “Miss Barbara thought it would be appropriate. Miss Edith loved looking out at the lawn from the balcony. Refreshments here in the house. The caterer is setting up in the formal dining room,” Genevieve said. “Miss Barbara wants to keep it small. Close friends and family.”

  “Previous employees, too?” I asked, thinking of how I’d told Ike Meador he’d be invited.

  “Oh, yes, of course.”

  “Sounds nice,” I said.

  Genevieve’s expression clouded and she waved her hand toward the back of the house. “But there’s not much time left. They have to get it right. I have to make sure of it before Miss Barbara comes by again.”

  I pulled Edith’s address book out of my tote bag. Genevieve’s frown deepened.

  “You’ve really got your hands full, but I promised Mrs. Walker-Pierce I’d return this,” I said.

  I knew Genevieve didn’t want me upstairs alone, which was understandable, so I kept talking before she could say anything.

  “I’ll run it upstairs and put it in Miss Edith’s room so you can get back to the kitchen and make sure that crew is doing everything right.”

  Genevieve looked at the address book, then toward the rear of the house, then at me, torn between her responsibilities. I kept my mouth shut, not wanting to oversell it with too much explanation.

  “Well, all right,” she finally said.

  “I’ll be quick,” I promised and trotted up the staircase.

  The urge to look back and see if Genevieve was following clawed at me, but I kept going.

  The upstairs corridor was as dim and gloomy as I remembered. Weak sunlight shone through the glass doors to the balcony. I hesitated outside of Edith’s bedroom and glanced back. No sign of Genevieve.

  I opened the door and hurried inside, ignored the bookshelves, and rushed into Edith’s dressing suite.

  Faint footsteps sounded on the hardwood floors in the hallway.


  Panic threatened.

  Stay or go?

  I kept going.

  I shoved the plastic garment bags containing Edith’s formal gowns aside and wedged my fingers into the tiny crack between the pocket door and the frame, and pulled. It wouldn’t move.

  The footsteps grew louder.

  I yanked harder. The door creaked open a few inches. I yanked again with both hands; it gave way a few more inches.

  The footsteps were just outside Edith’s bedroom.

  My heart pounded.

  I turned sideways and squeezed into the secret room. Edith’s journal lay atop the Louis Vuitton suitcase where I’d last seen it when I was in here with Barbara. I grabbed it, dropped it into my tote bag, and slipped through the opening again.

  Closing the pocket door would raise a racket but I couldn’t leave it open. I lifted and wiggled it, and forced it into place. I spread the garment bags across the rack and rushed into the bedroom as Genevieve stepped into the room.

  “Should I put this on the desk, or on one of the shelves?” I asked, pulling the address book out of my tote and fighting to control my breathing.

  She seemed slightly embarrassed that she’d come to check on me.

  “Just leave it on the desk.”

  I drew in a calming breath and placed the address book gently on the desk, centered it, and squared it up.

  Genevieve nodded, seemingly appreciating the modicum of respect I’d shown for Edith’s belongings, and stepped out of the room.

  I followed her through the hallway and down the staircase.

  My first thought was to bolt out the door as if Genevieve could somehow see the stolen journal that seemed to be burning a hole in my tote.