Oh my God, did that mean I was the one spreading all the rumors and gossip?
Apparently so.
Well, somebody had to do it.
I grabbed two doughnuts, a chocolate-covered and a chocolate-covered-with-sprinkles—no sense wearing myself out with decisions so early in the afternoon—and left the breakroom.
I settled into my desk ready to buckle down and get things handled. I hadn’t been in the office for a while, so I had a lot to catch up on.
I started with Facebook, of course.
Sipping my coffee, I ate my doughnuts as I updated my page, then checked my bank balance, read my horoscope, and booked a pedi. I took a selfie sitting at my desk and sent it to Marcie, asking if she wanted to go shopping tonight, then pulled up the Macy’s website to look for jeans when my desk phone rang.
“Hello? Hello, is Hannah there?”
Oh, crap.
It was Mindy.
“This is Haley,” I told her.
“Is Hannah there?” she asked.
“No, Mindy,” I said—and I sounded really nice about it, sort of. “There is no Hannah. It’s me. Haley.”
“When will Hannah be back?” she asked. “I have a message for her.”
“Listen carefully. There is no—never mind. I’ll give her the message,” I said.
Really, there’s only so much I can take.
“Tell her there’s a man here to see her. He’s in interview room three—four. Four. Yes, four. Or maybe it’s three.” Mindy giggled and said, “And, oh goodness, is he a handsome thing. Very handsome.”
My thoughts scattered as I slammed down the phone.
A handsome—a very handsome—man was here to see me? Mentally, I ran through the upcoming events I was planning for clients—a couple of St. Patrick’s Day parties, some birthdays, an anniversary—but none of them involved a man, let alone a handsome one.
Then it hit me. Oh my God, it must be Jack Bishop. What was I going to tell him? How was I supposed to act? I still didn’t have a clue exactly what had gone on at his place.
I drew in a breath to calm myself—it didn’t help—and left my office. I was going to play it cool, somehow, no matter what.
I stepped into interview room four and there stood Liam Douglas. Yikes! I hadn’t even considered that Liam was here to see me.
Am I a crappy sort-of girlfriend, or what?
He smiled—Liam had a killer smile. He was tall, sturdy, with long limbs and a good build. His hair was light brown—blond in certain light—and he had brilliant green eyes. Today he had on a Tom Ford suit that fit perfectly.
Since he was an attorney for the law firm that represented L.A. Affairs and we’d decided not to broadcast our relationship, we remained a respectable distance apart.
“I hope you don’t mind my dropping by,” he said. “I knew you were coming in this afternoon.”
Liam was the kind of guy who asked questions and actually remembered the answers—I know because I’d quizzed him.
“It’s great to see you,” I said and, really, it was.
“I wanted to talk to you about—sorry.” Liam pulled his cell phone from the inside pocket of his jacket, read the screen, then shook his head. “I wasn’t expecting this to come up today. I have to go. Sorry.”
He’d been super understanding about the long hours I’d put in over the Christmas party season, my last-minute cancellations, and the interruptions during the few occasions we’d tried to squeeze in some time together so, really, I was okay with it.
“Sure, no problem,” I said.
But he didn’t leave right away. He gazed at me for a moment—I mean, really, gazed at me—and said, “Will you have dinner with me?”
This didn’t seem like the usual let’s-get-together invitation I’d been getting from him.
“Soon?” he added.
Something else was definitely going on.
“If you’re planning to stop seeing me, you’d better tell me now,” I said. “I’m not above making a big scene in public.”
Liam smiled as if he thought that was the cutest thing he’d ever heard, and said, “No, Haley, never seeing you again is the very last thing I want.”
Some crazy heat jumped from him to me, and I couldn’t help smiling.
“Okay, dinner,” I said.
“Soon.”
“Soon,” I agreed.
“Perfect.” He gave me one last killer smile, and left the interview room.
Some of the warmth seemed to go with him. Weird, huh?
I headed back to my office, suddenly restless.
One of the things I liked best about working at L.A. Affairs was that the management didn’t expect me to sit at my desk all day. In fact, they preferred I was out meeting with clients, inspecting venues, and interviewing new vendors.
Since, luckily, none of my scheduled events needed much attention at the moment, I grabbed my handbag from my desk drawer and left.
CHAPTER 7
When I got into my Honda in the parking garage, my cell phone chimed. It was a text message from Marcie. She was all-in for shopping tonight, as a BFF would be. Of course, I didn’t really need any of the jeans I’d looked at online earlier—and I doubted Marcie did, either—but that was no reason not to check them out.
I texted her back suggesting we meet at the mall in Sherman Oaks, since I was already here, and just as I was about to drop my cell phone into my handbag, it chirped again.
A message from Liam appeared, asking if dinner tonight was too soon. I couldn’t help smiling. We’d been taking things slowly—I’m not one to jump into a relationship too fast and, as it turned out, neither is he—and I was starting to feel a warm glow inside when I thought about him.
Still, no matter how much I was glowing internally, I couldn’t accept the dinner invitation. I’d already committed to shopping with Marcie.
Yeah, okay, I could have blown off our plans and she would have understood, but I wasn’t going to cancel with a friend because a sort-of boyfriend had asked me out. That’s how I roll. And it had nothing to do with Macy’s winter clearance sale on jeans. I swear.
I texted Liam back, explaining that I already had plans and I couldn’t make dinner. His reply came a couple of minutes later in the form of a sad emoji, but no suggestion for a future dinner date.
Huh. What did that mean? Had he changed his mind about wanting to see me soon? Had I offended him?
Good grief. Boyfriends—even sort-of boyfriends—were a lot of trouble.
I’d have to talk to Marcie about it tonight.
To distract myself, I sat in my car for a few minutes mentally accessorizing the new jeans I would likely buy tonight, and the Mystique clutch popped into my head—I don’t know why; that sort of thing just happened from time to time.
No way could I carry the Mystique with jeans. That meant, of course, I would need a new dress.
Then the whole picture shattered with the unwelcome thought that I wouldn’t get the Mystique at a huge discount if the Holt’s store closed and I lost my job. Asha’s murder investigation bloomed in my head.
I pulled out my cell phone and found the pics I’d snapped of the documents in her employment file. Her résumé indicated she’d had a long series of jobs over the past eighteen months or so, mostly for small companies, probably for minimum wage, which explained why she drove that crappy old car. She’d lasted no more than a few weeks at each place.
What the heck was up with her? Why was she job hopping? Was it her, or was it the employers?
I figured there could be any number of reasons for so many changes. Maybe she had a health issue that caused her to call out so often she’d been let go. Maybe she was hiding something like a drug or alcohol problem. There was always the possibility that she simply got bored at the jobs—I could totally relate—or just hadn’t found her niche yet. Or maybe nobody could stand to work with her because she was a raging bitch.
One of the places Asha had worked caught my eye. Cakes By Carrie was a bakery i
n the Holt’s shopping center. She’d worked there a couple of months before she’d taken the sales clerk job at Holt’s.
Maybe that explained one of the questions I’d had about Asha’s death.
Her body was found near the loading dock. I’d wondered why she’d been at the rear of the Holt’s store in the first place. She must have gone to the bakery to visit a friend and they’d stepped out back to chat or maybe have a smoke. Somehow, that had led to Asha’s murder.
I was definitely going to have to see what was up at Cakes By Carrie.
I scrolled to the employment application Asha had filled out at Holt’s. It indicated she lived in an apartment complex here in Sherman Oaks. I punched the address into my GPS. It was less than a mile away.
Since I was so close—and L.A. Affairs was paying me—I decided this was a great time to check it out.
I wound down the ramps in the parking garage and turned right on Sepulveda, drove a few blocks, then nearly rear-ended the car in front of me when I saw the place. Oh my God, it was gorgeous.
I whipped into their parking lot and nosed into a space.
The complex was small, immaculate, very upscale and elegant.
Jeez, Asha had lived here? No way.
I double-checked the address. Yep, this was Asha’s apartment building.
I accessed their website. In the photos, the units looked exceptional. The list of amenities included custom walnut hardwood floors, imported tile, stainless-steel appliances, granite countertops with mosaic glass backsplashes, and hand-distressed custom cabinetry. There was wainscoting, designer paint, and huge walk-in closets with custom shelving, as well as upgraded fixtures and hardware, and decorative doors and baseboards. There was a landscaped pool and spa area, a game room, a gym, and a rooftop lounge. A two-bedroom rented for three grand per month.
Three grand? How the heck did Asha afford a place like this?
Unless she was a trust-fund baby with mental issues—which was entirely possible—Asha must have had a generous, altruistic roommate, or maybe a live-in boyfriend with a great job.
I had to find out what was going on. I considered going inside and talking to the resident manager, but no way would anyone who worked here reveal any info about their renters. I’d have to check out the place myself.
If two renters were on the lease, which was a definite possibility, the apartment would have been assigned two parking spaces. I decided to see if, by chance, Asha’s roommate’s car was there. If so, I’d just go up and knock on the door. I was, technically, a sort-of friend of Asha’s come to pay respects.
A wrought-iron gate covered the entrance to the underground parking, so I waited until another car went through, then followed it inside. The place was full of expensive cars—Mercedes, BMW, Cadillac—and I could only imagine how the owners had turned up their noses at the sight of Asha’s way-past-its-prime Chevy parked nearby.
The parking spaces were numbered so I cruised around until I came to the two that were assigned to Asha’s apartment.
I slammed on the brakes.
What the heck?
One of the spaces was empty. In the other sat Asha’s banged-up Chevy.
How could that be? Detective Shuman told me they’d towed it from the Holt’s parking lot and handed it over to the lab guys as part of the murder investigation.
I hopped out of my car and peered in the Chevy’s windows—careful not to touch anything, of course. I spotted a couple of empty water bottles, a crumbled bag from Taco Bell, and a pair of flip-flops—no note from the murderer confessing to Asha’s death, unfortunately.
I snapped a pic of the license plate and got back in my car.
None of this made any sense. I needed to talk to Detective Shuman—plus, my brain definitely needed a boost.
First things first.
I headed for Starbucks.
* * *
Shuman stood beside a table at Starbucks’s outdoor seating area at the Galleria when I walked up. I’d called him before I left Asha’s apartment complex, asking if he could meet me. I’d also sent the photo of the license plate and requested that he check with the DMV.
He was on his cell phone, grinning. I knew what that meant.
On the table sat a black coffee and a mocha Frappuccino. Shuman knew my favorite drink, and he’d obviously picked up on my distress when I’d called him because he’d ordered me a venti.
Shuman caught sight of me, turned away and whispered something into the phone, then tucked it into his jacket pocket.
“You’d be terrible undercover,” I told him. “I know that was Brittany you were talking to.”
His grin widened, giving me my answer.
“How’s it going with you two?” I asked as we sat down.
Shuman sipped his coffee. “Good.”
He’d been dating Brittany for a few months. She was nineteen, tall, blond, and overflowing with energy. She was Shuman’s transition girlfriend; he’d lost his long-time serious love interest not long before meeting her. I figured their relationship would have run its course by now, but not so. Shuman seemed happy. That’s all that mattered.
“What about you?” he asked.
I sipped my Frappie and said, “He’s still off somewhere finding himself.”
Shuman gave me a funny look and said, “I thought you were dating that lawyer. Liam.”
Oh, crap.
My mind had automatically jumped to Ty. What was wrong with me?
“Well, Liam and I are sort of dating,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound like as big of an idiot as I felt.
This seemed like a great time to change the subject.
“Please tell me you’ve figured out what was up with Asha,” I said. “Because everything I’m finding makes no sense.”
“Such as?”
I could see that Shuman was in semi-cop-mode and reluctant to dole out info, which didn’t suit me, but I had no choice but to roll with it.
“You told me you’d had her car towed from the Holt’s parking lot,” I said.
“We did.”
“I just saw it at her apartment complex.” I wiggled my finger at the pocket of his jacket where he kept his cell phone. “That’s the license plate I sent you. Did you run it?”
He nodded. “It’s a Chevrolet, and it’s registered to Asha.”
“How could it be at her apartment if you towed it away?”
“We towed a BMW,” Shuman said.
Okay, I was surprised.
“Both cars are currently registered to Asha,” he told me.
I figured Shuman hadn’t bothered to take the Chevrolet to the lab since it wasn’t at the crime scene. But I knew he’d been inside her apartment.
“How did her place look?” I asked.
“A hell of a lot nicer than mine, that’s for sure,” Shuman said. “We took a number of items into evidence. The lab is working on them.”
“Did Asha have a roommate, or something?” I asked.
“According to the apartment manager, Asha’s name was the only one on the lease.”
Now I was shocked.
“How did she afford it on minimum wage?” I asked.
“Bank records indicate she had just shy of fifty thousand in her account.”
“Oh my God, you’re kidding.”
Shuman gave me an I-don’t-get-it-either shrug and said, “Could have been that she was into something illegal. Maybe her dad was supporting her, or a sugar daddy.”
We both lapsed into silence while he sipped his coffee and I drained half of my Frappie. Either of those scenarios could have been correct—or something entirely different might have been going on with Asha.
“No, it’s more than that,” I said. “Asha drove that old junker to work every day. She wanted everybody to see her in it and think she didn’t have much money. Why would she do that?”
“We’ll find out eventually. We’re still looking at surveillance video at the shopping center, canvassing the stores, looking for witnesses.” Shum
an stood. “I have to go. Let me know if you find out anything else.”
“Sure,” I said.
But, really, I wasn’t paying much attention to Shuman as he walked away. The image of Asha kept circling through my brain.
Obviously, she had been leading a double life. But why?
CHAPTER 8
“Haley?”
I turned at the mention of my name and nearly reeled back in horror. In the breakroom doorway stood Jeanette, wearing a pantsuit covered in huge green, red, yellow, and white florals.
She looked like Hawaii.
The entire state.
“Come by my office before you go to the sales floor,” Jeanette said, and walked away.
The employees ahead of me in line for the time clock all turned and glared.
“What did you do this time?” one of the girls asked. “Get us all pay reductions?”
“Causing the store to close wasn’t enough for you?” a guy asked. “What now? Our medical is getting cancelled?”
“This isn’t my fault,” I said.
Well, okay, it kind of was. But I was confident there was a way to blame someone else.
Before I could come up with anything, the line moved forward, everybody grumbling as they clocked in. I hung back a little, then punched in my employee code and pressed my thumb to the scanner, marking the beginning of another four hours I’d never get back and, hopefully, wouldn’t remember.
According to the schedule hanging above the time clock, I was supposed to work in the housewares department today. On my own personal scale of crappy places to be, this department was ranked near the bottom because it offered one major benefit. You could keep a customer waiting a really long time while in the stockroom pretending you were wrestling those huge boxes of pots and pans off the shelves when you were actually texting friends, and nobody would be the wiser.
But first I had to see Jeanette. I went to her office door, braced myself, and walked inside.
Her outfit didn’t seem so hideous this time—which was alarming on a certain level—because she was seated behind her desk. She gestured to a chair and I sat down.
“Good news,” Jeanette declared. “The store has been granted something of a reprieve.”
She looked positively grim, so I wondered how good this news really was. Still, my heart beat a little faster thinking the store would remain open long enough for me to get my Mystique clutch.
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