Shop Til You Drop Dead (A Hollis Brannigan Mystery)

by Dorothy Howell

  “I hope you haven’t had any more problems with Miss Edith’s nephew showing up,” I said when we reached the foyer.

  “No sign of him.” Genevieve gestured toward the rear of the house. “Just all these service people, cleaning and getting things prepared. And the security patrol showing up when it suits them, walking the grounds, poking at things, and looking around.”

  “They go into the rear yard?”

  “I keep an eye on them.”

  Genevieve really had gone the extra mile, especially for a woman whose job was ending. I hoped Barbara appreciated everything she’d done, and would compensate her for it.

  “You’ve got your hands full here,” I said. “If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know.”

  “I will,” Genevieve promised and managed a tired smile. “I appreciate it. Really, I do.”

  I knew she was busy and I didn’t like delaying her work further, but I didn’t know when I’d see her again to ask about Edith’s visits to Vista Village, the visits Allison had claimed were upsetting for her.

  “I was thinking about the last few weeks before Miss Edith passed,” I said, as a gentle way to ease into the subject. “I know she visited the retirement home often. Was she okay going there? Was it upsetting for her?”

  Genevieve tilted her head as if she considered this an odd question.

  “No, not at all. Miss Edith enjoyed her visits there,” she said. “Oh, I suppose it was hard, in some ways, seeing how everybody was getting older, reminding her that she was getting older, too. But she came back happy. She often said how pleased she was that she could help people who couldn’t afford such a nice place on their own.”

  So it seemed that Allison had been wrong about Edith’s treatment while visiting Vista Village. Maybe she was trying for some misdirection to keep the conversation off of herself or to point a finger elsewhere. Whatever her reason, I was relieved to hear Edith had been treated well during those visits.

  “Let me know if I can help with anything,” I told her again.

  “Thank you. I will.”

  Nothing would have suited me more than to head straight home, but I had to return the BMW. By the time I pulled into the parking garage it was emptying out. I took the elevator up to six and went into the hospitality department. Everyone had left for the day, except for Louise. I paused in the doorway of her office. She didn’t look up from her computer monitor or utter a word as I placed the corporate credit card I’d been assigned today in its designated spot on her desk, and noted the time on her log.

  Shoppers routinely kept the corporate card if we already had shopping scheduled for the next day. Louise hadn’t sent me anything. I hoped that wasn’t a bad omen.

  I stood there for a few seconds, thinking she might stop whatever she was so enthralled with online and chat a bit. She didn’t. Maybe she was waiting for me to say something first. Maybe she expected me to grovel, ask if she was pleased with my shopping results today. Maybe she wanted me to tell her how much I liked working here, how much I appreciated her giving me another chance, and that I’d do anything to keep my job.

  And suddenly it hit me: I was as annoyed with Louise and her corporate, childish behavior as she apparently was with me. Fire me. Don’t fire me. Whatever.

  I left her office without a word.

  On the drive home all I could think about was getting into my comfy sweats, making a quick dinner, and reading Edith’s journal. Something had to be in there that would help me solve her murder. It had to. I was just about out of leads, clues, and suspects, and didn’t know where else to turn.

  As I opened my front door, my neighbor Krystal popped out of her place and into the hallway.

  “Look! Mommy’s home!” she declared.

  Something odd was cradled in her arms, something fuzzy and—

  The dog. Gizmo. I’d forgotten her. Again.

  “Thanks for keeping her today,” I said, taking her into my arms. She snuggled close and licked my cheek.

  “She did okay today,” Krystal said, and from the tone of her voice she thought I should have called to check on her.

  “Great,” I said, trying to hold Gizmo who’d started squirming around. “So she can come back tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know.” Krystal frowned and looked down at her beagle that was sniffing her ankles, and lowered her voice. “I think Barney was a little jealous today.”

  “Oh, no,” I said, not as concerned about the emotional wellbeing of little Barney as I was for myself trying to figure out what to do with Gizmo tomorrow if she couldn’t stay with Krystal.

  “You know, there are some really great pet-sitting services in the neighborhood,” she offered.

  I figured there were, but they cost a fortune—well, more than my already tight budget could stretch to accommodate.

  “I’ll check them out,” I promised. “I can’t leave Gizmo just anywhere.”

  “Of course not,” she agreed. “Tell you what, let’s give Barney and Gizmo another chance to become friends. Let her stay with us tomorrow and we’ll see how it goes.”

  “That would be great. Thanks. And I’ll get started checking out those pet-sitting services.”

  “I just walked her,” Krystal said. “She should be fine for a while.”

  “Thanks again,” I said, and went into my apartment.

  Inside, I put Gizmo down and she sniffed her way into the bedroom with me. Doggie-care was handled for tomorrow, but what about after that? I didn’t want to leave her home alone. Who would keep her all day?

  The idea of returning her to the shelter once more crept into my thoughts.

  I changed clothes and decided that a glass of wine seemed appropriate for sticking my nose into Edith’s past, where it didn’t belong. I fed Gizmo, made myself a plate of pepperoni, cheese, and crackers, and settled onto my sofa with the journal.

  I stared at the cover, the tiny rosebuds and vines tooled into the red leather, and felt a little icky. These were Edith’s memories. It wasn’t right to pry, especially now that she was gone. Still, if something had happened in her past that led to her murder as I suspected, I had to find out what it was. I gulped some wine and opened the journal.

  Barbara had told me that Edith journaled religiously. I’d seen dozens of journals on the bookshelf in her bedroom. She seemed like the kind of person who would make detailed entries, and I saw that I was right.

  The journal was written in Edith’s old school script, the same as I’d seen in her address book. Each letter was perfectly formed and embellished with curls and loops. It was controlled, elegant, and graceful, as I suspected Edith herself had been.

  The first entries detailed the run up to Edith’s freshman year at UCLA. There had been shopping trips with her mother, with friends, and consultations with stylists at the finest dress shops in Los Angeles. Edith’s family had a position in the community, wealth, standards, and her mother guided each selection so that Edith’s appearance reflected the family’s status. This seemed to be expected and Edith accepted it as normal.

  I skimmed entries and pages enough to learn that Edith had been excited about her upcoming college career. She had lots of friends, girls from families similar to her own I was sure, and she noted in detail the places they’d gone, what they’d worn, and how they’d discussed the courses they’d scheduled, the new direction their lives were taking. The image of the young Edith filled my head.

  Once the semester started, Edith’s entries became shorter, probably because she’d been busy with her classes, adjusting to life in the dorm, managing the heavy course load. Then at the end of September an entry appeared that caused my breath to catch. She’d met Drew Arrington.

  Edith had taken great care to detail their first meeting and those that followed. Drew had stopped to help when she’d dropped her books. He’d explained the shortest route to the library then walked her there to make sure she didn’t get lost. Another day he’d surprised her by waiting outside her classroom and present
ing her with her favorite candy bar because he remembered she was nervous about her math test that day.

  The details of the journal entries became more in-depth. She’d recorded exactly what she’d worn on every occasion she’d seen Drew, how she’d fixed her hair, how he’d been such a gentleman opening doors for her, helping her into her sweater, the kind of behavior that was the measure of a man in those days.

  He’d asked her out on a date. They’d gone to a movie then had a soda at a café near the theater. He’d kissed her outside her dorm.

  Edith’s excitement very nearly sprang off the pages of her journal. She liked him—more than liked him.

  I pictured them, both not yet into their twenties, attractive, excited about their new lives unrolling before them. Finding each other. Talking about their classes, their friends, their hopes and dreams. Then, their first real date, and after that holding hands on campus, more dates, more kissing. They became inseparable.

  As the weeks went by that fall, Edith often wrote about how safe she felt with Drew, how she knew he would always take care of her, how she knew she’d always be all right, as long as she was with him. By Edith’s November journal entries, she was in love. He’d told her that he loved her too. She’d drawn hearts around the entry and written Mrs. Andrew Arrington and Edith Arrington over and over in the margins.

  The warmth of their emotions bloomed inside me. I’d never been in love but I could feel theirs.

  I sipped more of my wine. Gizmo jumped up on the sofa and wormed her way onto my lap.

  Edith and Drew’s future together seemed obvious. Finish college, start their careers. Marriage. Settle down, buy a house, have kids.

  Sadness bore down on me. I closed the journal.

  None of that had happened.

  Edith had gone abroad to study art. She’d returned and shortly thereafter, married Conrad Bagley and moved into the mansion on June Street.

  Edith and Drew had seemed so in love. I almost didn’t want to read the rest of her journal entries and learn what, exactly, had ended their love affair.

  I finished my wine, drew a determined breath, and opened Edith’s journal again.

  The entries became short again, less flowery, less about Drew. Comments ranged from dreading a visit home with her parents, to struggles with academics, to a young woman in her dorm whom her friends insisted she should get to know.

  Journal entries through November and December were few. Days passed with no comments. No mention of Drew. No clue as to why their love affair had cooled so quickly and apparently so completely. Then, while home on Christmas break, Edith had written a brief sentence about her parents’ plan for her to study abroad beginning in January.

  The opportunity to go to Europe would have been exciting for anyone, especially an art major like Edith. I guess it was all right with her, since things with Drew had ended. Likely, she was anxious for a change.

  The image appeared in my mind of Edith sketching on the banks of the Seine and in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, spending hours studying the works of the Masters in museums, making new friends, maybe having a torrid love affair with a flamboyant Frenchman. I wanted to read about that year as it progressed, and know that Edith had found her footing and thrived in her new life.

  But when I turned the page, there were no entries. Not a single one. Every remaining page in the journal was blank.

  Chapter 23

  By the time I pulled into the parking lot at Vista Village the next morning, I suspected I knew why Edith’s relationship with Drew had cooled, and why her parents had suddenly sent her abroad. A young woman in love, living away from home for the first time—it wasn’t hard to figure out what had happened. I just needed somebody to confirm it.

  I needed, too, to figure out how that long-ago event connected to the present, and Edith’s death. Her commitment to pay for Drew’s health care and the renovations on his house was not a random act of charity, and certainly wasn’t for old time’s sake.

  In the community room several residents were watching the morning news while others flipped through magazines or sat quietly staring out the windows. I didn’t see Drew Arrington, which was good; I wasn’t ready to talk to him. I spotted Sadie seated across the room in a comfy chair, reading.

  She smiled when I walked over.

  “Well, isn’t this a nice surprise,” she said and put her book aside.

  Sadie had seemed mentally sharp when I visited her before. I was glad she recognized and remembered me.

  I nudged an ottoman over and sat down beside her chair.

  “How are you?” I asked.

  “Oh, about like you’d expect.” She chuckled softly, then leaned a little closer and drew her brows together. “You look like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders. What’s the matter?”

  Last night I’d hardly slept for thinking about Edith still in her teens, in a life-changing situation with only one solution. Enduring her parents’ scorn and their desperation to avoid a scandal, being shamed and sent away, away from her friends, away from everything she knew and could have been comforted by. Alone and abandoned, facing one of the most difficult things a woman could bear. And then being forced to live a lie for the rest of her life.

  On the drive to Vista Village I’d run several scenarios through my head, waiting for the best way to handle this situation to come to me. Nothing did. I was left with hoping that when I sat face to face with Sadie, knowing what to say would come to me. It didn’t. I hardly knew where to start, or how to approach her.

  Sadie laid her hand atop mine.

  “Whatever it is, honey, it can be fixed,” she whispered.

  Her touch was warm and gentle, a mother’s touch, the kind of touch that meant everything really would be all right. Thoughts of my own mother flew into my head and those rare occasions when she was in fact, motherly. Emotions rose in me, choking off my words.

  “Take your time,” Sadie said.

  I gulped hard and blinked back tears.

  “Something was found in Edith’s bedroom,” I managed to say. “In a secret room.”

  Sadie withdrew her hand and rocked back in her chair, her shoulders going stiff, her gaze accusing.

  “Money and a handgun,” I said.

  Sadie gasped softly, not in shock, but dread. She knew what I was talking about.

  “Everyone will assume they’re connected to a crime,” I said. “I’m afraid of what will happen if the police get involved. It could become public knowledge, and you know how the media blows things out of proportion. It will ruin her reputation and could jeopardize the library being named after her.”

  Sadie squeezed her eyes closed and turned away.

  “Edith led an exemplary life. I’m sure she was never involved in a crime, so there must be some other explanation,” I said. “Was it connected to what happened to Edith during her first semester in college, and why her parents sent her abroad?”

  A little mewling sound slipped through Sadie’s lips. She drew in a steadying breath. A long moment passed before she looked at me again.

  “Secrets,” she whispered. “Some secrets just won’t stay buried.”

  Another moment went by while Sadie seemed to gather her strength and accept the inevitable.

  “There’s no point trying to hide the truth now. Not after all these years. Everybody is dead, or as good as dead.” She drew another fortifying breath. “All right, I’ll tell you—”

  Her gaze darted across the room. I turned and spotted two health care workers chatting with the residents who were playing cards.

  “Let’s take a walk.” Sadie shoved to her feet and took off.

  As I followed, I recognized the two workers. One was Lisa, who’d been so attentive to Edith during her visits here. The other was the big guy who’d helped me when I’d come here the first time, Phil. He’d calmed Drew after Lisa upset him.

  Both of them eyed us as we left the community room.

  Sadie led the way to the garden
we’d walked through before. No one else was there.

  “Edith was pregnant with Drew’s baby, wasn’t she?” I said as we strolled down the walkway.

  Sadie had worked for the family when this had happened, so she’d surely seen it all. She’d been especially close to Edith, since they were the same age.

  “Her parents must have been devastated,” I said.

  “That father of hers … oh, that man had a temper,” Sadie said. “And her mother. She took to her bed. Having a baby out of wedlock was a terrible scandal back then. A girl and her family were marked for life.”

  “I guess if Drew had stepped up, done the right thing, and been willing to marry Edith, it would have smoothed things over,” I said.

  “He’d have married her in a heartbeat, if he could.”

  “I thought they’d broken up.”

  “Where did you get that idea?”

  I didn’t want to tell her I’d read Edith’s journal.

  “So why didn’t they get married?” I asked.

  “Drew was a good boy. He’d have taken care of Edith as best he could,” Sadie said. “But Drew’s best wasn’t nearly good enough for Edith’s father.”

  “Couldn’t Drew go to Edith, take matters into his own hands and marry her?”

  “He didn’t know where she was. Nobody would tell him,” Sadie said. “In fact, he didn’t even know about the baby until one of Edith’s friends in the dorm finally told him. By the time he went to Edith’s home, she was already gone.”

  “To Europe?”

  “That was just a cover story. Her father sent her up north. But she may as well have been in Europe. That place cost a lot of money and Edith’s father paid well to have her sequestered. No visitors. Especially not Drew.”

  I thought again of what a terrible predicament Edith had been forced to endure.

  “Drew kept coming around the house, asking after her until her father threatened to call the police on him,” Sadie said. “Still, he’d sneak around when he thought that man was gone. I took pity on him, told him where she was. It didn’t do any good. Those two were never going to be allowed to get together.”