by Beth Yarnall
“But I can, like, text?”
“When you’re on break or lunch.”
“So, like, when’s my break?”
“Ten thirty.”
“That’s like two hours from now?” she whined. Everything was a freaking question with her.
“Try to hold up. In the meantime—” I handed her a wad of tissues, “—find your eyes under all that kohl liner. It’s called the smoky eye, not the charred-beyond-all-human-recognition eye. Also put your hair up, back, shave it off or whatever, but you’re going to have to make it comply with Estelle Landers standards. That means it needs to be out of your face. You got the dress code booklet, right? It’s all in there. Make it happen in the next twenty minutes and be ready to work when the store opens.”
She gave me a long-suffering sigh/eye-roll combo that had me clenching my hands into fists. Great. This girl was going to seriously mess with my ability to stay on probation.
Where were my drugs? No, seriously. Where were they? I rifled through my purse again, looking for the antique pill case my grandma had given me, and the precious aspirin inside. Gone. I’d been misplacing a lot of things lately. Tabitha teased that it was love making me forget, but I was pretty sure it was Shasta siphoning off what was left of my sanity. I gave up and sat back in my seat with a sigh.
“Something wrong?” Super Agent asked, putting the movie on pause.
He was dressed casually, which meant that his dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar and his sleeves were rolled up. We were at my place, sitting close together on the couch, but not as close as I wanted to be.
I was trying this new thing: self-control. It was all part of the realization I’d had when Super Agent and I had first met that I might have a teeny-tiny impulse-control issue. It had all started with me being framed for a murder I didn’t commit and ended with me on probation. It turns out there’s no law on the books for kicking your dead, cheating, Arizona state senator ex-boyfriend in the nuts, but there is one for disturbing a crime scene. If I hadn’t caught Chuck Puckett’s murderer for the FBI, I’d be sitting in jail right now facing an additional weapons charge instead of sitting on my couch on probation.
Super Agent and I had kinda, sorta already ripped each other’s clothes off within days of meeting each other. Well, within days of my meeting him. He’d been following me for a year as part of a case the FBI had been putting together against Chuck Puckett. So while Super Agent knew everything, and I mean everything, about me, I was learning about him the old-fashioned way. One chaste date at a time.
My little impulse-control thing combined with a very slight anger-management issue meant that I had a lot of work to do. So this was me turning over a new leaf, becoming a better person, working on me, yada yada yada. And it wasn’t humbling, noble or life affirming.
It was freaking frustrating as hell.
“I have a headache and can’t find my pill case,” I answered, releasing the tangled mass that was my hair from its ponytail and running my hands through it. Thanks to my Spanish/Armenian/Greek heritage I had thick, dark hair that hung down to my waist.
Super Agent loved my hair. Which was ironic seeing as how he didn’t have any. He was bald, black, and so beautiful I couldn’t look at him straight on without wanting to throw out all of my so-called self-improvement.
He watched my hair sift through my fingers like some men would watch a porn flick. “Want me to rub your head?”
“Oh, that would be heaven.”
He put a pillow in his lap and patted it. “Lie down.”
I did as he asked. He lifted my hair so that it draped out behind me. His fingers were magic. I groaned and he shifted me in his lap. After a few moments I noticed he hadn’t turned the movie back on.
“Don’t you want to see what happens?”
“I’m pretty sure they’re going to have a fight because he did something stupid, then he’ll make some big gesture to win her back. The end.”
“Next time you can pick the movie.”
“Deal. What’s got you so stressed?”
I filled him in on my charming new employee. I got to the part about Shasta rubbing her ass on poor old lady Landers, and he burst out laughing.
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was.”
The doorbell rang.
“You expecting someone?” Super Agent asked.
“Probably Miguel wanting to borrow something.” I rolled off the couch and went to the door. “Like money or my car…again.”
Nope. Not my brother.
A deliveryman held a huge vase of red roses. “Maggie Mae Castro?”
“Oh,” I sighed. If my self-control was weak before, it now lay on its back with X’s for eyes. Super Agent was gonna get so lucky.
Super Agent pressed against my back. “What’s this?”
“Sign here.” The delivery dude handed me a clipboard, which I scribbled on and passed back. He gave me the flowers, which weighed a ton. “Have a nice night.”
“Thank you.” I hefted the roses over to my dining room table and set them down. I leaned down and inhaled their scent. “Mmm.” I loved roses. I looked up to see Super Agent on my porch, hands on hips.
He came back inside and slammed the door. “Who are those from?” His tone had an edge I didn’t like.
“What the hell do you mean who are they from?”
“I’d like to know who’s sending my girlfriend flowers.” He actually thumped his chest on the word my.
I might have gone all gushy inside at his possessive use of the word girlfriend if it wasn’t for the accusing look he was giving me.
“Must be from my other boyfriend. The one who sends me flowers.”
He lunged for the card, but I snatched it away just in time.
It was like watching a lion puff himself up for battle. He even roared. “Who are they from?”
“Obviously not from you!” And why weren’t they from him? What the hell?
His nostrils flared, and if it was possible, he got even bigger. “Maggie,” he warned.
I put a hand up and glared. When I was sure he wasn’t going to grab for the card again, I opened it. Well, that was anticlimactic. I turned the card over, then pinched the envelope open, thinking I’d missed something.
He grabbed the card out of my hand and read it. His dark complexion reddened as he shook the card in my face. “I’m going to ask you one more time, who these are from?”
“I have no idea. I thought they were from you. Obviously I was wrong.” I got mad all over again. “And why haven’t you ever given me flowers?”
“What?” He shook his head. “That’s not the point here.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “I think it’s a darn good point.”
“I’ll buy you some freaking flowers already.”
“Well, I don’t want them now. They’d just be guilt flowers.”
He slapped the notecard down on the table and pointed at the flowers, which had lost all their specialness since I’d thought they’d been from Super Agent. Now they kind of freaked me out.
“Who sent these?”
“I told you, I don’t know.”
“I don’t like this.” His tone scattered goose bumps up my spine. It was his FBI-Special-Agent voice.
“What do you think it means?”
“I think it means someone likes you. A lot.”
We silently glanced down at the crumpled, unsigned note on the table.
YOU’RE MINE, MAGGIE
I had a secret admirer with excellent taste, a pissed-off, paranoid boyfriend who carried a gun, a raging headache on stilettos named Shasta who was just now strolling in from an all-nighter, and no aspirin because my pill case was still missing. And no sex. Did I mention the no sex?
My life was awesome.
Shasta had managed to do nothing at all her first day, called in sick her second day, and now she was half an hour late for her third day. I’d begged Daryl to fire her, but he’d slinked away, mumbling
something about disciplinary actions and giving chances and maybe a little something about the thickness of my personnel file.
“Why does she even bother to show up?” Tabitha whispered across the counter.
I just shook my head as I moved on to the next waiting customer. The other two E.L. beauty consultants and I were two deep at the counter and short a beauty consultant—Shasta. Estelle Landers only had a gift with purchase twice a year so we were swamped.
Shasta came over to me as I was ringing up my customer. “I’m like getting a latte? Soooo….” Her usual pixie voice was dotted with gravel—from her all-nighter, no doubt.
“Actually. No. You’re not. You were supposed to be here at nine to help restock the counter. Soooo like guess what?” I grabbed her hand and slapped a list into it. “Go to the stockroom and bring back every piece of these products we have in stock.”
“But I like need my latte?”
“No. What you need to do is breathe your smoker’s breath in the stockroom while you get these products.” I jutted out a hip and parked my hand on it, my best I mean business pose. “Like now.”
“Whatever. You don’t have to like go all bitch-faced at me?” She stomped off toward the stockroom.
“I’ll show you bitch-faced, you little—”
“Careful,” Tabitha warned, catching my raised fist. “I heard old man Stratford’s in the store today. Our numbers came in and we’re number one out all of his department stores. He’s here to find out what we’re doing different.”
“Have you seen him yet?”
She shook her head. “He started on the first floor, but he’ll be up here any minute. You punching out Shasta would not be the best first impression as a brand-new counter manager.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” And it would kinda ruin all the self-improvement progress I’ve been trying so hard to make, not to mention jeopardize my probation. But it sure would feel good. I shoved my hand in my pocket to grab my favorite lipstick so I could do a quick reapply. It was gone. “Darn it.” Not my lipstick too.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’ll see you at—” I was cut off by a huge crashing sound that rocked the floor. “What the hell? Did that come from the stockroom?”
“I think so.”
I rolled my eyes at Shasta’s stupidity. “I am so going to kill that girl.”
I ran around the counter with Tabitha on my heels. Our stockroom was in the handbag department and all of their sales staff had come over to see what had happened. I punched in the code to the door and turned the handle. The door wouldn’t budge.
“Shasta?” I called out. No answer. I turned to the crowd standing around. “Help me push the door. Something’s fallen in front of it.”
We shoved and shoved until we created a space big enough that I could poke my head through. “Oh, my God. Shasta!” I pulled my head out. “Push harder. Somebody call 9-1-1!”
We gave it everything we had and finally made enough headway that I could shove my fat behind through. Tabitha slipped easily into the stockroom behind me. It was worse up close than it had been from the doorway. Somebody behind me screamed.
One of the fifteen-foot-high metal shelving units had fallen over. I could just barely see the top of Shasta’s head. The big boxes on the higher shelves had piled down onto her and in front of the door. I started pulling boxes off of her, handing them back to the people behind me.
I finally moved the last big box. “Oh, dang.”
Behind me the gawkers gasped. Someone was crying. The shelving unit had pinned Shasta to the wall, hitting her square in the solar plexus. Her head hung on her chest, a thin line of blood seeped from her mouth.
“Shasta?”
Licking my lips, I reached out a tentative hand and felt for a pulse. Nothing. I’d seen death before when Chuck Puckett had been murdered. It really hadn’t prepared me for this. Bowing my head, I closed my eyes. I whispered a quick blessing and made the sign of the cross. I wasn’t the best person or the best Catholic, but it was all I could think to do for her.
“What’s the trouble here?” a male voice I didn’t recognize asked.
I stood up slowly and turned to the crowd that had gathered in the cramped space, thinking I should probably get everyone out of there.
An older gentleman, whose portrait hung in the executive offices of every Stratford’s Department Store, broke from the crowd and rushed forward. “Shasta?”
Oh, hell no.
He elbowed me aside and dropped to his knees. “Shasta!” He shook her. “Shasta!”
“I’m sorry—” I began.
“Don’t just stand there. Get this thing off her!” He tried to move the shelving unit, but it wouldn’t budge.
I put a hand on his arm. “Mr. Stratford, don’t. There’s no way to move it. Help is already on the way.”
“You don’t understand.” He leaned against the unit, putting his whole body into it. It didn’t shift an inch. He bent over and gripped his knees, breathing hard. “I can’t leave her like this.” He looked up at me and whispered, “She’s…she’s my daughter.”
Dread pooled, sick and thick in my belly. Oh, dang. Double dang. Shoot, frick, dang!
I’d killed the big boss’s daughter.
This was going to look really bad in my personnel file. My first month as counter manager and I’d gotten one of my employees killed. And not just any employee, but the storeowner’s daughter. I should’ve let her go get her latte like she wanted. If I had, she’d be happily texting and sipping, I’d be unhappily brooding and working my ass off, the store would be open, cops wouldn’t be swarming the place, and no one would be carting a body bag out the door. But nooo, I had to go and assert my stupid authority.
At least I knew now how Shasta had gotten a job she wasn’t qualified for or interested in and why Daryl hadn’t fired her.
Xavier put his arm across my shoulders. “Well, at least old man Stratford knows who you are now.”
I gave him a get-bent glare. I hadn’t shared Mr. Stratford’s little revelation with Tabitha and Xavier. Not long after the police had arrived, Mr. Stratford had pulled me aside and insisted—no, insisted was too nice a word, threatened was really more accurate—me not to tell anyone Shasta was his daughter.
“It’s really not your fault,” Tabitha offered.
I transferred the glare to her. “You’re almost convincing.”
“That’s not what I meant. I mean it’s totally not your fault. How were you supposed to know that shelving unit was going to fall on her? Who could know that? No one. That’s who. I wouldn’t have known. You couldn’t have known.”
I put a hand up to stop her. Tabitha always jibber-jabbered when she was nervous.
“I bet her family could sue for the shelves not being strapped to the wall,” Xavier said.
I swiveled my head in his direction. “What?”
“No strapping. Didn’t you notice?”
Come to think of it, I had, but I guessed I’d been so distracted by Daddy Department Store’s declaration and threatening aside that the shelves not being bolted to the wall had kinda taken a backseat. Why hadn’t that shelving unit been fixed to the wall?
Lance strolled over and inserted himself between Tabitha and me. “Terrible tragedy. Terrible.” He slipped an arm around my waist and pulled me to him. “How’re you holding up, love?”
Xavier tightened his hold and brought me closer to him. He hated Lance. “She’s fine.”
“Indeed she is.” Lance dug his fingers into the flesh on my hip and jerked me closer. “Now that I’m here.”
I suddenly found myself the center of a tug of war, my head bobbling back and forth. I finally had enough of them and elbowed them in the sides. “If one of you tries to pee on me, you’ll both be pissing sideways for the rest of your lives. Knock it off.”
They dropped their arms.
Xavier crossed his over his chest. “She was fine before you got here,” he grumbled at Lance.
> My retort caught in my throat as they brought Shasta’s body out of the stockroom and hefted the body bag onto a stretcher. Even though she was nearly as tall as me at five foot nine, the black bag seemed too big for her young body. The nervous chitchat was suspended for a moment as we all watched them wheel her body out of the store.
“Why was she even over on that side of the stockroom?” Lance’s voice held the same disbelief we were all feeling.
For once His Fake Highness was making sense. Annoying, tactless sense, but sense nonetheless. The shelving unit that had fallen on Shasta held Shy Kitty products, not Estelle Landers. Our products were on the other side of the stockroom. So what had made her turn right instead of left?
“Maybe she saw something shiny and climbed up for a closer look.” Tabitha clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. “I can’t believe I just disrespected the dead like that.”
“Did you or one of your counter mates ask Shasta to get some product down for you?” I asked Xavier.
“No. We pulled stock this morning.”
Curiouser and curiouser. The shelves weren’t attached to the wall like they were supposed to be. Shasta had been on the wrong side of the stockroom at the wrong time. There was a seldom-used door at the other end of the stockroom. Someone could’ve lured her in, brought the shelving unit down on top of her and then easily escaped. Everything about this “accident” just didn’t feel right to me, like the very real possibility that it hadn’t been an accident at all. That maybe, just maybe someone had unstrapped that shelving unit and used it to kill.
I caught Mr. Stratford staring at me across the sales floor, the look in his eyes wary and watchful as I worked to close down the counter for the day. Did he suspect as I did that his daughter had been murdered? And if so, why keep the fact that Shasta was his daughter a secret? Wouldn’t that help the police find out who killed her and why? Maybe she was killed in retaliation for something Mr. Stratford had or hadn’t done. Maybe her murder was some kind of warning to him. Or maybe—and this was kinda farfetched—he killed Shasta, setting it up to look like an accident.