Pocketbooks and Pistols

by Dorothy Howell

  Oh my God, I’d found it.

  I had to call Shuman. He had to get here right away—or maybe he was already here, interviewing Carrie.

  I swung around and reached for my cell phone.

  Dena stood between the shelving units.

  Her gaze dropped to the open desk drawer, then bounced up to me again.

  “You killed Asha,” I said.

  “You have no proof,” she told me.

  “Detective Shuman will be here any minute. He’ll see your gun and do a ballistics test. It will show—”

  Dena grabbed a large wicker basket from the shelving unit and heaved it at me. I batted it away, but she was right behind it and shoved me aside. I fell against one of the file cabinets and my flailing arm struck the other one. I spun around as she pulled the pistol from her handbag.

  “What gun?” Dena asked, pointing it at me. “By the time anyone arrives, this thing will be long gone. Now, step away from the door.”

  No way was I letting her escape so she could destroy evidence.

  I dropped my arms onto each of the file cabinets, blocking the door.

  “You thought you could get away with murder,” I said. “Again.”

  “You mean that man I was married to?” Dena uttered a disgusted grunt. “I was cleared of all charges.”

  “But you murdered him, didn’t you?” I said.

  “It was an unfortunate accident,” she insisted, then smirked. “Unfortunate for him that I found out about his string of girlfriends.”

  Oh my God, she’d really killed her husband.

  “So that made it easier for you to kill Asha,” I said.

  “Some people deserve to die,” Dena said. “She tried to ruin my daughter’s bakery—and just when things were starting to go well for us.”

  “Us?”

  Dena lowered her voice, as if we were gossiping over lunch, and said, “Carrie was a difficult child, especially after I divorced her father. She was a difficult teenager, always with problems. I tried to deal with her, and I did the best I could, but things were strained between us—until I bought her that bakery.”

  “With your husband’s life insurance?” I asked.

  “She insisted it was the only thing that would make her happy. She wanted to own a bakery. I didn’t have that kind of money until . . .” Dena paused. “Well, let’s just say the timing was perfect.”

  “So, then, everything was going along fine?” I said.

  “Yes, finally. Finally. Finally we were getting along. We were talking, making plans, discussing our businesses. Finally she was happy.”

  “Then Asha wrote that awful review.”

  Dena’s expression darkened. “What a little sneak. Going to work at the bakery, pretending to be Carrie’s friend, then stabbing her in the back.”

  I nodded to the door behind me and said, “You must have spotted Asha out back, having a smoke near the loading dock. You went down there and confronted her.”

  “I went there to talk,” Dena insisted. “She’d been into the bakery the day before. Can you imagine the gall? Waltzing into Carrie’s shop all friendly-like.”

  I knew that Asha had been in Holt’s the day before she was murdered, when she’d had that argument with Valerie Roderick near the customer service booth. Asha had probably been there to shop, but I suspected she’d been at the shopping center for a very different reason.

  “What did she want?” I asked, though I was pretty sure I already knew.

  “She had the nerve—the nerve—to tell Carrie that if she wanted to be sure nothing bad was said about her bakery, she could take out an ad on her website.”

  Wow, I’d been right.

  It wasn’t much consolation, with Dena still pointing that gun at me.

  “Do you have any idea how much money I had to pour into that bakery for advertising, special promotions, and discounted prices to make up for that awful review?” Dena demanded.

  “Carrie agreed to pay for the ad?”

  “What choice did she have?” Dena shook her head. “I couldn’t go through that with Carrie again. I couldn’t.”

  “Asha came back the next day to finalize the ad with Carrie,” I said, which was a guess on my part, but it made sense. “You spotted her out back by the Dumpster.”

  “Oh, yes, there she was having a leisurely smoke, not at all concerned that she was about the ruin another business.” Dena spit out the words as if they were bitter on her tongue, then paused and drew in a long breath. “I wanted to make sure that, after Carrie bought that ad, Asha didn’t have any intentions of writing more lies about the bakery. And, of course, I wanted to tell Carrie she didn’t have to worry about Asha ever again.”

  “How’d that work out?” I asked. I already knew the answer. I wanted to keep Dena talking until I could figure out how to get out of this mess.

  Dena seemed to get lost in thought for a few minutes, remembering, I figured, how it had gone down with Asha.

  “She had no intention of settling for just one ad, right? It would never have ended,” I said. “So you ended it.”

  “What else could I do?” she said. “Call the police? Take legal action? Wait for months, and all the while Asha’s was still writing those horrible reviews?”

  “You shot Asha.”

  Dena nodded slowly, then locked the gun in a two-handed grip and said, “And now, I’m going to have to shoot you, too.”

  I grabbed one of the binders from the top of the file cabinet and threw it at her. The gun went off. A bullet whizzed past my head.

  No way was I giving her a chance to get off another shot.

  I lurched forward and grabbed her arm, pushing it away. Dena whirled around, dragging me with her. I stumbled over the leg of the chair and hit the floor hard. Another shot rang out, this one burying into the desk.

  I scrambled to my feet. Dena danced backwards, following my movement with the gun. I flung the chair at her, striking her in the knees, and jumped to the side.

  “Put the gun down!”

  Jack appeared among the shelving units. Dena swung the gun his way.

  I threw myself at her, a full-body blow, knocking her down. We landed hard on the floor, Dena facedown, me on top. I grabbed her wrists with both hands. Dena bucked and wiggled, trying to throw me off.

  Just when I was considering grabbing a handful of her hair for a fight-ending face-plant, a CAT boot came down on Dena’s gun hand. She screamed. I was jerked upward, off of her.

  “I’ll take it from here,” Shuman said, letting go of me.

  He whipped out handcuffs. Jack helped secured her wrists, then turned to me.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  No, I wasn’t okay. My heart raced, my adrenaline pumped, and parts of me were in pain.

  I guess Jack realized that because he pulled me close and wrapped both arms around me.

  Okay, now I was better.

  “How did you know something was wrong?” I asked, looking up at him.

  “When I was in the parking lot I saw you walk into this place,” Jack said. “I had a feeling something was up, so I came over. I heard the shots.”

  “I was next door talking to Carrie,” Shuman said, looking angry. “You shouldn’t have come in here alone, Haley. You shouldn’t have put yourself in this dangerous position. What were you thinking?”

  “You should have told me what you were doing,” Jack said, sounding none too happy with me. “I was right outside. Right there in the parking lot. Why didn’t you let me know?”

  Jeez, I solved a murder, saved Jack from being shot, and this was the thanks I got?

  I pushed away from Jack.

  “Don’t act like this is all my fault,” I told them. “You two are the ones who insisted on having some evidence.”

  That shut them up.

  “Clean up this mess,” I said, waving my arms around. “I have a birthday party to go to.”

  I left.

  CHAPTER 28

  “Everything is wonderfu
l, Haley, just wonderful,” Jeanette said.

  “Thank you,” I said, and managed to sound humble, even though I knew I’d done a great job staging the festival.

  We were standing in the Holt’s parking lot, just outside the spacious white tent I’d had erected for VIPs. Executives from the corporate office, the team of investigative journalists, and the shop owners were inside, taking advantage of the comfy seating groups to chat.

  “Actually,” Jeanette said, “everything is spectacular.”

  I’d arranged for one of L.A.s finest caterers to provide food for the VIPs, and had included a full bar—which, as always, added to the spectacular occasion.

  Nearby, the festival was winding down. Folks had crowded the area all day, eating, enjoying the games, moving through the stores to shop, and returning to the festival again.

  I spotted Jack making his way past the kids’ area. He and his team had been on the go all day. So far, there hadn’t been one minute of trouble.

  “Those journalists are a little disappointed,” Jeanette whispered, then smiled. “With the murder solved, an arrest made, and the festival going so well, they don’t have much to report. The police closing the case yesterday was certainly a lucky break for us.”

  “It was,” I agreed, though, really, it was all me.

  I hadn’t heard from Shuman since he’d left the craft store with Dena in handcuffs. I knew he was busy. I figured he’d get clear soon and fill me in on everything.

  My cell phone rang. Jeanette headed back into the VIP tent while I answered.

  “Ms. Randolph, this is Kendal from Nuovo. I have some good news.”

  A little more good news today wouldn’t hurt.

  “Your two Mystique clutch bags have arrived,” she said.

  I allowed myself a little fist pump and said, “Great. Thanks.”

  Of course, I wanted to rush right over—really, you can never get your hands on a fabulous bag too soon.

  After the last few days, I decided to treat myself. I could pick up Marcie, go to Nuovo, bask in the glory of our Mystiques, and get back here in time to make sure everything was handled when the festival officially closed.

  “I’ll pick them up later today,” I said.

  “Very well. I’ll see you then.”

  “Great—oh, wait,” I said. “What about Chandra? She’s my personal shopper there.”

  Kendal paused for only a second or two and said, “Chandra has moved on to accept new opportunities.”

  I wondered if “accept new opportunities” was code for “got fired,” or maybe “quit without notice.”

  Either way, not my problem.

  “Okay, see you later,” I said, and ended the call.

  I dashed off a text message to Marcie telling her to meet me at my apartment so we could pick up our Mystiques. She immediately texted back a dozen happy faces.

  As I was heading back into the VIP tent, I caught sight of Shuman getting out of his car. I walked over to meet him.

  “Are you feeling okay?” he asked, looking concerned. “You took a couple of hard hits yesterday.”

  I had some bruises from wrestling around with Dena, but nothing permanent.

  “I’m good,” I said. “What’s up with Dena?”

  “Ballistics matched her gun with the murder weapon,” Shuman said. “Looks like she’s in for a long prison sentence.”

  I gazed across the parking lot. The craft store was closed, but the bakery was doing a brisk business.

  Of course, I could never go in there again. Carrie, no doubt, blamed me for her mom’s arrest. I wondered how long she could keep the bakery going without Dena’s help.

  “Do you think Carrie was involved with Asha’s murder?” I asked.

  When I’d been in her bakery and told her about Asha’s death, Carrie had gone completely whacko. She must have suspected her mom was behind the murder.

  Shuman shrugged. “Dena claims not, but I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Even if Carrie was involved, I knew Dena would keep it a secret. It was a total mom thing to do.

  I nodded to the VIP tent. “There’s food, if you’re hungry.”

  Shuman shook his head and grinned. “I’ve got a date tonight.”

  “Cool.”

  He left and I made a lap through the festival, making sure everything was still running smoothly with no problems, then checked on things in the VIP tent. No problems there, either.

  Security announced that the festival was over and guided the remaining guests out of the area. I told Jeanette I had something to take care of with the construction crew—a total lie, but oh well—and left.

  I drove to my apartment and hurried inside. Marcie would be here in a bit, but no way was I going to Nuovo dressed in the L.A. Affairs standard uniform of black pants and sweater—even though it was an upgraded version and I looked totally hot in it.

  When I got to my bedroom, my doorbell rang. Wow, Marcie was really early. She must be more excited than me to get our Mystiques. Maybe we’d find something totally cool to wear with them at Nuovo—or maybe I’d find something totally hot to wear on my romantic weekend with Liam.

  I hurried to the front door and yanked it open.

  Ty stood outside.

  I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t seem to comprehend that he was standing in front of me.

  He had on jeans and a polo shirt. His hair brushed his collar. He had a short beard.

  And he looked handsome.

  My heart pounded so hard I could hear it in my ears.

  “Can I come in?” he asked.

  I couldn’t form any words. I stepped back and he walked into my living room.

  “I just got back,” he said. “Right now. This minute. I came straight here.”

  All I could do was look at him.

  “I’ve had a lot of time to think,” he said. “That’s why I left, you know. I had to sort things through, figure out . . . figure out my life. And I’ve done that.”

  Ty stepped closer and said, “I’m in love with you, Haley.”

  My mouth fell open. I blinked twice to make sure I was really seeing him, that this wasn’t some sort of weird hallucination.

  “You—you what?” I managed to ask.

  “I love you.”

  Oh, crap.