Handbags and Homicide

by Dorothy Howell

  The office was small, dimly lit, and furnished with a gray metal desk and black chairs. Everything was cluttered with stacks of folders and papers, and the walls had the same posters as the break room, notices about employee rights and wages, the store’s sales target, the teaser about the secret Christmas merchandise.

  It was a little disconcerting that store management had to be constantly reminded of these things.

  I sat down. Ty circled behind the desk. He looked at me for a moment, then gripped the videocassette with both hands.

  “About last night…” he said.

  Oh God. He’s going to fire me.

  Ty looked at me for another moment, then sat down in the chair and placed the videocassette in the center of the desk.

  He’d watched the stockroom surveillance tape and seen me sitting on the Laura Ashley bed-in-a-bag sets. And now he was going to fire me.

  “I was shocked by what happened last night,” Ty said in a concerned voice. He looked at me, then squared off the cassette and folded his hands.

  I forced myself to sit still in the chair, but my mind raced.

  If I lost this job, what sort of employment was left to me? Fast food? Doing nails?

  “Everyone was stunned,” Ty said, inching his hands closer to the cassette.

  How was I going to live? Move in with my parents?

  Oh God, no. There had to be something I could do.

  Maybe I should offer to have sex with him. My spirits lifted a little—more than a little, really. He was awfully good looking, especially in that Armani suit. And I hadn’t had sex in a while. The desk was kind of small, but if I braced my feet against the chair—

  Oh my God, what was I thinking? I couldn’t have sex with Ty Cameron to keep my job—I could under other circumstances, of course—but not for a job at Holt’s. Jeez, what had I sunk to?

  I straightened my shoulders and sat up a little higher in the chair. I’d already lost one job today—temporarily, of course—at the biggest, baddest law firm in the world. I’d faced Mrs. Drexler and walked away with my head held high. I wasn’t going to buckle now.

  “So,” I said, staring right back at Ty, “what’s happening with the investigation?”

  His left eyebrow crept up a little and he sat up straighter, then pointed at the videocassette.

  “The detectives watched the tape of the stockroom,” he said, looking hard at me.

  I refused to allow myself to flinch.

  “And?” I asked.

  He picked up the cassette, studied it for a moment, turned it over in his hands a couple of times, and laid it down again.

  “I watched it too,” he said.

  I gritted my teeth and pushed my chin up.

  “So, what was on it?” I asked. “Any leads in Richard’s murder?”

  The question hung between us for a long, excruciating moment while he stared at me and I stared right back.

  “The images are black and white, and pretty grainy,” he said.

  “Did you recognize anyone?”

  “I’m not familiar with every person who works here, so Craig Matthews looked at the tape, along with the detectives. He ID’d everyone,” he said. Another moment passed painfully slow. “There was nothing useful,” he finally said. “The cameras only cover the entrances to the stockroom, not the stockroom itself.”

  I nearly fell out of my chair.

  “Oh well, too bad,” I managed to say, as I stood up. “Look, I’ve got to get to work. I’m in shoes tonight and—”

  “One more thing,” Ty said, coming to his feet.

  Oh, jeez, what now? If this guy was waiting to see my of-course-you-can smile, he could just—

  “I wanted to thank you for keeping a cool head last night,” Ty said. “You kept a lid on things, handled everything discreetly. I appreciate that.”

  “Oh. Well, you’re welcome,” I said and headed for the door.

  “I took your advice,” Ty said, moving around the desk. “I fired the LP guy on duty last night. We’re going to have to shift some people around for a while to cover all the departments.”

  Great. Just what the employees needed. More changes.

  I headed for the door but Ty jumped around me and opened it. He stood there looking down at me, and I couldn’t help but notice how good he smelled. Or that my knees were shaking a bit and my heart seemed a little jumpy.

  But maybe it was just my relief that I hadn’t been fired.

  “Thanks again,” he said and gave me a little smile.

  “No problem,” I said and left the office.

  “The detectives might want to talk with you again,” Ty said. “They’re coming by later.”

  “Yeah, okay, whatever,” I said.

  I walked away, stunned by my good luck. No one had seen me lying on the Laura Ashley bed-in-a-bag sets in the stockroom. The cameras didn’t cover that area, or the film had been too grainy for my face to be recognized. Either way, I was off the hook. Thank God.

  I decided my night needed a boost so I headed for the break room. Too bad you couldn’t get beer from a vending machine. I settled for chocolate.

  The break room smelled like one of those diet meals, and a girl was standing at the microwave gazing through the glass panel in the door. Somebody told me she’d lost twenty-five pounds. I have to say she looked great, but I still hate her, of course.

  I ate my Snickers bar in silence, trying to come to terms with what had just happened. On the plus side, I still had my job at Holt’s. And on the minus side, I still had my job at Holt’s.

  Why hadn’t Kirk Keegan called me yet?

  I decided to get my cell phone from my purse and check for messages. Who knows, maybe the Pike Warner investigation had already been completed and they were expecting me in the Accounts Payable unit tomorrow morning.

  What a nice thought—almost as nice a thought as the memory of the red leather Notorious bag I’d bought this morning.

  But as I dug through my purse, another thought came to me.

  If Ty Cameron and the police detectives hadn’t spotted anybody unusual on the stockroom surveillance tape, that meant Richard’s murderer was an employee.

  I was working with a murderer.

  My hopes rose, as I thought it might be Rita. Or that bitch-face Glenna Webb. Cooler still, if it were both of them.

  Whoever had killed Richard would be listed on the daily work schedule from yesterday. I remembered looking at it when I clocked in, so I went back to the clipboard hanging by the time clock and flipped the page. It wasn’t there.

  I looked at all the schedules, going back nearly two weeks. Yesterday’s was gone.

  Ty had said the police detectives would be in the store asking questions, but they weren’t expected until later. Periodically, one of the managers would take the schedules from the clipboard and file them away somewhere, I guessed, but why would they take just one? Why not all of them?

  I got a little chill as I left the break room and stopped at the customer service booth. Grace was at the counter, just finishing up with a customer. She was only about nineteen, just out of high school and taking some college classes.

  “Hey, Grace, how’s it going?” I asked, when her customer left.

  “I’m freaked. Totally freaked,” Grace said and shivered. “I heard that Richard was found in the stockroom—wearing women’s panties.”

  Jeez, how do these crazy rumors get started?

  “Can I see the work schedule?” I asked.

  Lots of things are kept in the customer service booth, including a binder with another copy of the daily work schedule in case employees need to call in and ask what hours they’re supposed to work. Grace laid it on the counter in front of me, then went to wait on another customer.

  I flipped the page back to yesterday. The schedule was gone. All the others were there, but yesterday’s had been removed.

  Okay, now I was totally freaked.

  Someone who worked in Holt’s had murdered Richard. And someo
ne was covering it up.

  The shoe department at Holt’s handled footwear for the whole family. There were rows and rows of tall shelves that were too close together for two strollers—or two large customers—to pass, and not nearly enough benches where customers could sit and try on shoes. The department was self-service but employees were on hand to hunt up a specific size or color in the stockroom and, of course, to clean up after thoughtless, inconsiderate people who tried on a dozen pairs of shoes and left the boxes and tissue paper on the floor.

  Yes, I know I used to do the same thing, but that was different.

  Tonight things were kind of slow in the store; I wondered if word of Richard’s murder had gotten out and was keeping people away. A couple with three small kids was in the children’s section, so I positioned myself at the opposite end of the department, near women’s shoes. I usually hung out in that area anyway, so I could try things on when no one was looking.

  Sophia, who was the department lead, walked up as I was looking at the pumps. She was a little powerhouse. Barely five feet tall, chunky, but in a muscular way. She was Hispanic. I couldn’t guess her age, but I knew she had five kids.

  “I heard you found Richard dead,” Sophia said, then shook her head in disgust. “Bastard. Served him right.”

  I expected her to say something about Richard being found wearing women’s lingerie, but she didn’t. Thank goodness I didn’t have to hear that again.

  “Some of the other employees are kind of creeped out, knowing he got murdered right here in the stockroom,” I said.

  “Nobody should feel worried here in the store,” Sophia said, “unless they’re hurting other people, like he was.”

  “Richard was an ass, all right,” I agreed.

  “I’ve worked here a long time—a lot longer than Richard. Then he comes in here with his new ways, making changes, causing trouble,” Sophia said. “Why should I pretend like I’m sorry he’s dead? I’m not sorry. You ask me, I say he got what he deserved.”

  Sophia seemed deep in thought for a couple of minutes, then snapped out of it and waved her hand at the shoes.

  “I’ve got paperwork in the stockroom. Come find me if it gets busy,” she said, then disappeared through the door in the back wall of the department.

  I looked at my watch. Hours to go before the store closed and I could leave. I needed to entertain myself somehow.

  My thoughts flew to Kirk Keegan. He said I should give it a few days before expecting to hear anything from Pike Warner’s investigation, but I didn’t know if I could last that long. The clock was ticking, days were passing, and I wasn’t getting paid my usual Pike Warner wage.

  A customer wandered into the department, so I stooped down and pretended to straighten the boxes on the bottom shelf.

  Mentally, I calculated what the loss of my Pike Warner income—even for a few days—meant in real-time dollars. It was a lot. Huge. It translated into the difference between a Dooney & Bourke and a Fendi bag.

  I hoped Kirk got back to me soon.

  Slowly, I rose and took a peek over the racks. No sign of the customer. Good. I turned and almost ran into her.

  She’d sneaked up on me from behind. Was I losing my touch here?

  I managed an of-course-you-can smile, by way of a greeting, and she gave me a weak smile in return. She looked good in Tommy Hilfiger jeans and a T-shirt, and carried a Chanel satchel.

  “I love your bag,” I blurted out.

  “Thanks,” she said, and I wondered what someone with her good taste was doing here in Holt’s.

  “Can I help you find a size?” I asked, thinking that I could hide out in the stockroom for an easy ten minutes, pretending to search.

  She shook her head. “No, thanks.”

  We looked at each other for a few seconds and, I swear, I read her mind.

  “The shoes are kind of crappy here,” I said.

  “Yeah. Kind of,” she agreed. “Who’s your buyer?”

  “Probably the same person who orders the clothes,” I said.

  She laughed and I did too.

  Okay, now I’m liking my job.

  “I’m studying at the FIDM,” she said.

  “Cool,” I said.

  The Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising in Los Angeles was world-renowned, so I knew she was serious about clothes and shoes—the important things in life.

  “Holt’s must be your don’t-let-this-happen-to-your-store project,” I said.

  “You guessed it.”

  “We got in some boots that aren’t too awful,” I said. “Want to see them?”

  “Sure.”

  I turned around and there stood Ty Cameron blocking the aisle. Oh God. Had he heard me talking crap about his store’s shoes? I hoped not. Oh, please, don’t let it be so.

  “Could I see you for a minute?” Ty asked. “When you’ve shown this customer our boots?”

  Damn it.

  I walked two rows over to the boots and spent a really long time explaining every style to the customer—while wearing my of-course-you-can smile—then waited while she tried on two pairs and decided to buy one. I stretched it out as long as I could, thinking Ty would get bored and go away, but he didn’t. He just stood there, watching. When the customer left, he walked over. I expected to get an earful about criticizing the store’s merchandise—like it was my fault the shoes were awful—but he didn’t say anything about it.

  “Can you leave the department for a few minutes?” he asked.

  I can always leave the department.

  “The detectives are here,” Ty said. “They’d like to talk to you again.”

  Detectives Shuman, the young one, and Madison, the old one, were in the office Richard had used when Ty and I got there. The file cabinet and desk drawers were open and everything looked sort of scattered, so I guessed they were looking for evidence.

  I glanced at my wristwatch wondering if I could stretch this out until closing.

  “Could I speak with you, Mr. Cameron?” Detective Madison asked, levering himself out of the desk chair.

  Ty nodded and Detective Madison glared at me as the two of them left the office and closed the door. Detective Shuman moved away from the file cabinet and gestured at the chairs in front of Richard’s desk.

  “Want to sit down?” he asked, smiling. “I worked at Wal-Mart in college. Hard on the feet.”

  I sat down and he took the chair next to me. He had on a J.C. Penney, or maybe a Sears, sport coat, and a tie so awful it could have been purchased here at Holt’s, but he pulled it off pretty well with the shirt he wore. Shuman might make a fun reclamation project.

  We just sort of sat there for a while in silence, looking at each other, then diverting our eyes and gazing around the office, then doing the same thing all over again.

  “I’m supposed to wait for Detective Madison,” Shuman said after a while, and gave me an apologetic smile.

  He seemed like a nice guy, probably the thinker of the two. I doubted Madison liked him very much.

  “I don’t know anything else to tell you guys,” I said.

  “I figured. But Detective Madison wanted to talk with you again.”

  Another silent moment dragged by.

  “So, do you have any new clues?” I asked, just for something to say.

  “Some,” he told me.

  “Like what?”

  “I’m not supposed to say.”

  “Well, yeah, but can you tell me anyway?” I asked.

  Shuman grinned, as if he thought I was cute.

  “We found the murder weapon,” he told me. “One of those carts that’s used to move the merchandise around.”

  The store had two kinds of carts for moving things. One was a Z-rail, used for hanging items. I figured he was talking about a U-boat. It was a flat-bottomed hauler, about four feet long and a foot wide, with tall, removable bars on each end that gave it a U shape. Both were designed to navigate the narrow aisles. There were dozens of them all over the store
and stockroom.

  “Somebody pulled one of the metal bars off a U-boat and hit Richard with it?” I asked, feeling very Gill Grissomish. “A crime of opportunity.”

  Shuman studied the floor for a few minutes, then glanced back at the door before turning to me again.

  “Look, Miss Randolph,” he said in a low voice, “we found out about your job at the law firm.”

  I jumped. What? They know I’m on administrative leave from Pike Warner? They’ve been investigating—me?

  “I don’t think there’s much to it,” Shuman said, “but Madison thinks there’s a connection.”

  “A connection?” I all but shrieked. “Between what?”

  He motioned with his hand for me to calm down, and glanced at the door again.

  “You got fired—”

  “It’s administrative leave.”

  “—and you work in accounts payable. Fraud is serious.”

  “Fraud? I didn’t do anything fraudulent,” I insisted.

  “Then there’s that overdraft on your checking account.”

  “It’s tiny!”

  “Plus all those credit cards you have.”

  “There aren’t so many,” I told him.

  “You got a duplicate driver’s license from the DMV. Madison thinks you’re planning to disappear.”

  “My purse was stolen,” I almost shouted.

  “And Evelyn Croft? Your supervisor last night?” Shuman said. “She said you didn’t seem upset when she saw you coming out of the stockroom after finding the body. Everybody agreed you were very calm.”

  “I’m good under pressure,” I told him.

  “So you see the connection?” he asked.

  “No! I don’t see any connection at all!”

  “You have financial problems. You lost your job on the same day your boss here got murdered.” Shuman shook his head. “Detective Madison thinks you’re involved. He thinks Richard threatened to fire you and you killed him.”

  Oh my God. They’re trying to pin Richard’s murder on me. Me!

  I was going to jail—way worse than getting fired.

  I don’t want to go to jail. I don’t want my new BFF to be Large Marge. And jumpsuits make my butt look big—and orange is a terrible color on me—and do prisoners ever get to carry a purse?