Handbags and Homicide

by Dorothy Howell

  “Taking care of some business,” I said.

  “Really? What sort?”

  I punched the elevator call button six more times.

  “My mom’s latest venture,” I said, remembering the fund-raiser she’d roped me into helping with next week. “I handle the business end of things.”

  “No kidding?” Ty looked impressed. “What sort of venture is it?”

  I’ve got no flippin’ clue what she’s up to now.

  “We’re expanding,” I said, nodding and waving my hand as if I’d explained something rather than ignored his question. “I’m just here to look over the portfolio with Kirk. He’s our attorney. One of them.”

  “My family has been with the firm for decades. Ted and Gerald,” Ty said, as if I should know who these people were. “I saw Bob today.”

  “Bob’s a good man,” I said.

  Behind Ty, I saw Wanda staring. I hit the elevator call button again.

  “So, you’re finished with your appointment?” Ty asked.

  Wanda stood, then nodded to Kirk’s secretary, Beth.

  “Yes. For now. Sort of,” I said.

  Wanda unplugged from her console and came around her desk.

  “Kirk’s running behind so I had to—to reschedule. For later this afternoon,” I said.

  “Would you like to have lunch?” Ty asked.

  Beth picked up her phone. Oh my God. Was she calling security?

  “I’ve got to go,” I told Ty.

  “So that’s a yes?” Ty asked.

  “What?”

  “To lunch,” he said.

  Had he just invited me to lunch? I couldn’t go to lunch with Ty Cameron.

  Wanda headed toward me. Beth spoke into her phone. The elevator dinged and the doors opened.

  “Sure, lunch sounds great,” I said and hurried into the elevator. Ty got in beside me, freezing Wanda in place.

  “Messenger that package to me today, will you, Wanda?” I called, as the elevator doors closed.

  I was so relieved to be off of fifteen that it took a few minutes to realize I was stuck in the elevator with Ty Cameron and I’d promised to have lunch with him. When we reached the ground floor, Ty said, “I know a little place near here. How does that sound?”

  The guard at the security desk was on the phone. He turned and looked at us. Oh God, he was the one who had escorted me out of the building on Monday.

  “Perfect,” I told Ty. I hooked my hand through his arm and pulled him toward the door. “I’m starving. Let’s go.”

  We walked in L.A.’s beautiful winter sunshine to an outdoor café furnished with wrought-iron tables and bright, blooming plants. Lots of well-dressed men and women were there. I spotted a Fendi tote, a Kate Spade satchel, and a—oh my God, a red leather Notorious, just like mine.

  The maitre d’ knew Ty by name and seated us right away at an umbrella table.

  I was feeling a little jittery as I looked over the menu. I wasn’t sure if that was because of my close call at Pike Warner, or the fact that Ty was seated across the table from me and the breeze had rumpled his hair so that he looked really sexy.

  Ty ordered a steak sandwich and I asked for a salad. I didn’t really want a salad, but women are expected to order one, and it did fit into my new, healthier lifestyle.

  A couple of minutes passed in silence and I started to calm down. Then Ty smiled at me.

  “How’s Pancake?” he asked.

  What the hell was he talking about?

  “Pancake,” he said again. “The puppy you rescued from the freeway.”

  Most men don’t know the color of your eyes after six dates and this guy remembers a story—a lie, really—that I told him about a dog?

  “Fine,” I said. “Cute as a button. Doing, you know, puppy things.”

  “Chewing up shoes and furniture cushions?” he asked and chuckled.

  I don’t know. My mom wouldn’t let us have a dog.

  “Right, right,” I said. “Lost a great pair of Gucci sandals just last night.”

  “That’s too bad. Listen, if little Pancake is too much trouble, how about if I find someone to adopt him?”

  What?

  “I couldn’t have you go to any trouble,” I told him.

  “It’s no trouble. In fact, I know someone who’d love to have a new puppy,” Ty said.

  “Really, that’s not necessary.”

  “Why don’t you bring him to the store?”

  I shook my head frantically. “No, no—”

  “I’ll pick him up from you and take him to his new—”

  “No!” People two tables away turned to stare. I forced a little smile. “I mean, I couldn’t bear to part with little Flapjack.”

  “You mean Pancake?”

  “Yes, of course I mean Pancake,” I told him. Jeez, this guy gets me so rattled. I took a breath to calm myself. “We’ve bonded. I couldn’t possibly part with him now.”

  “You’re devoted to this little pup, aren’t you?” Ty said, with a twinkle of admiration in his eye. “He must be very special.”

  “Oh, he is.”

  “I’d love to see him. Maybe I could swing by your place?”

  What the hell is wrong with this man?

  “Yeah, of course,” I said. “Any time—oh, look, here’s lunch.”

  I was never so glad to see a bowl of lettuce in my life.

  We ate in silence for a few minutes; then Ty said, “I appreciate your hanging in there at the store, after Richard’s murder. We’ve lost a dozen employees so far.”

  I wondered how many more would have quit if Richard hadn’t been murdered and had continued to screw over all the employees. Probably more than a dozen.

  “Have the detectives given you any new info?” I asked.

  Ty shook his head. “They’re not saying much. Something about Richard being involved with a neighbor’s wife.”

  His neighbor’s wife and Glenna Webb? How many women was that rat-bastard carrying on with?

  “How are the other employees handling it?” Ty asked. “Have you heard anything?”

  He seemed really concerned, as if the people who worked at the store mattered to him. I guessed he must be sincere, since he’d come to the store himself and had instituted programs to make some changes.

  “To tell you the truth,” I said, “nobody really liked Richard.”

  “They didn’t?” he asked, looking surprised.

  Why is it that people in management rarely know what’s going on in their own companies?

  “Why did you hire him?” I asked.

  “My dad hired him, actually, a couple of years ago,” Ty said. “The company was founded by my great-great-grandparents when they opened the first store in Los Angeles in the 1890s. It’s been passed down, generation to generation.”

  “Five generations?” Wow, and I thought I had some family baggage to drag around.

  “And you’re running it now?” I asked.

  “Yep,” he said, with a tight smile. “Richard was good at his job. He worked in our Northridge store, helped make it the most profitable in the chain.”

  “What happened to the assistant manager who worked at our store before Richard?” I asked.

  Ty didn’t answer right away, and I got a little nervous.

  “Don’t tell me he was murdered too,” I said.

  “No, nothing like that. Transferred to another store, that’s all.” Ty finished his sandwich. “So, what do you think about working at Holt’s?”

  My throat went tight, but I managed to swallow. “Fine. It’s fine,” I said.

  “Really?”

  How could I sit here and criticize the store his great-great-grandparents had opened a hundred and some years ago? It was his legacy, his heritage, his future. Yet I’d just been dying for someone from management to ask me what I thought.

  “Well,” I said, “a few changes wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Such as?”

  I couldn’t hold back.

  “
Throw everything out and start over,” I said.

  He winced. “That bad?”

  I shrugged. “The housewares and domestics are okay, and I don’t know much about the kids’ clothing. But the women’s fashions are just hideous, the shoes are awful, and the handbags—oh my God…”

  Ty didn’t say anything, just sat there. I don’t think he was too happy about what I’d said.

  “Write up your suggestions on the form I handed out,” he said, as he frowned and looked at his wristwatch. “I’m afraid I’ve made you late for your appointment with Kirk.”

  Oh yeah, my nonexistent appointment.

  “No big deal,” I said. “I’ll catch him later.”

  “You should call and reschedule,” Ty suggested, looking slightly out of sorts and hurried.

  I made a face. “You know, I don’t have my cell with me,” I said, even though I knew it was tucked inside my purse; I never went anywhere without it.

  “Use mine.”

  “No. Really, that’s not—”

  He pulled his phone from the inside pocket of his jacket, punched in a number on speed dial, and passed it across the table to me.

  Now what was I supposed to do?

  I took the phone just as Wanda came on the line. Ty was watching me from across the table and Wanda was repeating, “Pike Warner, Pike Warner” over and over in my ear. I had no choice.

  “Wanda, this is Miss Randolph,” I said in my I’m-better-than-you voice. “Cancel me with Kirk for this afternoon. And did you messenger that package to me? Very good. All right. Thanks, dear.”

  I hung up.

  Wanda had hung up right after she heard “Miss Randolph.”

  I smiled and passed Ty’s phone back to him.

  “Everything all right?” he asked.

  “Perfect.”

  A couple moved past our table and I saw that it was the woman with the red leather Notorious handbag just like mine. Our eyes met.

  “Will you be at Drew’s this weekend?” she asked.

  Oh God.

  “Sure,” I said. What else could I say?

  “Great. See you then,” she said and moved on.

  Ty’s brows pulled together. “Do you know Drew?”

  I was not getting into this with him.

  “I really need to go. Thanks for lunch,” I said, as I got to my feet.

  Ty rose beside me and reached for his wallet. “Could we do this again some—”

  My cell phone rang.

  Ty’s brows drew together and he glanced down at my bag.

  “Is that your phone ringing?” he asked.

  “I don’t hear anything.”

  “I’m sure—”

  “It can’t be my phone. I don’t have mine with me,” I insisted. “Thanks again for lunch. Good-bye.”

  I rushed out of the café and down the street.

  Oh my God. How humiliating.

  At the corner I dared to look back. Ty stood outside the café, watching me.

  CHAPTER 10

  “You. Come on.”

  Thinking it was a customer, I acted as if I hadn’t heard anything and kept straightening the socks. I was working in ILA tonight, Craig’s area, Intimates, Lounge-wear, and Accessories. Accessories covered socks, flip-flops, and purses, among other things. I was concentrating my effort—such as it was—on the sock displays, since I tended to lock up in the presence of nondesigner handbags.

  “Haley, move it,” the voice said again.

  A customer who knew my name? More reason to keep looking down.

  Then Rita stomped over—I knew it was her because I recognized her Pick’n Save footwear—and I was forced to look up.

  “You’re cashiering. Come on,” she barked, and started walking toward the front of the store.

  “Cashiering?” I exclaimed, as I hurried after her.

  Oh my God, my second-worst nightmare—the first being working in the customer service booth.

  “I’ve never cashiered before,” I told her.

  “You were trained on it in orientation,” said.

  I was?

  “Yeah, but that was a long time ago, and—”

  “Quit complaining,” Rita snapped.

  She was in high bitch mode tonight. Just my luck.

  “Two more people quit today,” she told me. “We’re shorthanded. You’re cashiering.”

  We turned the corner and I froze. Only three of the eight registers were open and the lines were incredible.

  “Where did all of these people come from?” I blurted out, remembering how dead the store had been since Richard’s murder.

  “Our weekend sale started today. You’re supposed to read the notices in the break room so you’ll know these things,” Rita said. “Take register three. It’s already open. I’ll be back to check on you later.”

  She stomped away. The customers turned to me, watching to see which register I’d go to so they could jump lines. And I was frozen in place.

  Which register was number three?

  Then I spotted a big gold 3 on the back of one of the registers and went to it. Customers rushed to follow. First in line was a tiny, gray-haired woman holding three blouses on hangers. Whew! Should be an easy first sale.

  “Do you have layaway?” she asked.

  Good question.

  “No,” I said, because it sounded as if it would cause more work for me.

  “Is today seniors’ discount day?” she wanted to know.

  Holt’s offered a seniors’ discount day?

  “No,” I told her.

  She sighed heavily. So far she hadn’t put a single item on the counter. Six people were in line behind her and were staring—at me, for some reason.

  Another minute passed.

  “Well, okay,” she finally said and laid one of the blouses down. “Ring this up, honey.”

  I glanced over at the three other cashiers. Their fingers flew across the keypad, they swiped cards, made change, and bagged merchandise in one fluid movement. One of them was Colleen, who, from what little I knew of her, must have come to work here on a hire-a-nitwit program. If she could do it, so could I.

  I read the screen on the register and saw that the instructions were all there. Cool. This wouldn’t be so hard at all.

  “You want to move your ass, honey?” the gray-haired woman said. “It’s not like I’ve got a lot of time, you know.”

  I smiled—it in no way resembled an of-course-you-can smile—and scanned her blouse.

  “Is that on sale?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “It’s supposed to be on sale. There was a sign,” she told me. “Twenty percent off.”

  I was probably supposed to call someone from the misses department to verify that, but really, what difference did it make? Holt’s was a big company; they could take a twenty-percent-off hit on a fifteen-dollar blouse. I gave her the discount.

  I reached for the next blouse and she grabbed it away.

  “What do you think of this?” she asked.

  “It’s ugly.”

  The woman held up the blouse and studied it. Now nine people were in my line.

  “If it’s ugly, I ought to get a discount for taking it off your hands,” the woman told me.

  “How does ten percent sound?” I asked.

  “Make it fifteen and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  “Done.”

  I scanned the last blouse and managed to wedge all three of them into a bag—she insisted on keeping the hangers—as I gave her the total.

  “Is that with the discounts?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Is this seniors’ discount day?”

  “No.”

  “Seems to me if you people can give seniors a discount one day of the week, you could give it to them every day,” she told me.

  Now eleven people were in my line.

  The woman grumbled under her breath, then opened her purse and pulled out a checkbook. A checkbook? I didn’t think anybody used
checks anymore.

  “Well, I’ll pay you for this stuff,” the woman said, gesturing toward her bag, “but I don’t think it’s right.”

  By the time she filled out the check, three more people were in my line.

  I was probably supposed to get an approval on the check, or something, but I had no idea how to do that. I dropped it in the cash drawer and she left.

  Next was an old man with white, buzz-cut hair. He laid a pack of black socks on the counter.

  “This is a damn long time to wait in line for a pack of socks,” he complained. “Where are all the rest of the employees? Why would a big store like this have only four registers open? What the hell is going on here? Fine thing, come to a store and have to wait this long in line. I know what’s going on here. Your store managers are saving on payroll to boost their own bonuses. What is this, some Communist country? I thought this was America.”

  He ranted while I scanned his socks and gave him the total.

  “What about my senior discount?” he demanded.

  Okay, so maybe today really was seniors’ discount day.

  I gave him a twenty percent discount, saving him a whopping sixty cents. But even that didn’t suit him. He snatched the receipt out of my hand, grabbed up his socks, and stomped away.

  Somebody should have gone the Old Yeller route on him ages ago.

  The next customer rolled up with a cart and dumped a double armload of clothing on the counter. Four kids swarmed around her.

  “Do you have layaway?” she asked.

  “No.”

  Rita appeared beside me.

  “Are you offering credit?” she demanded. “You’re supposed to be offering credit.”

  I was?

  “Of course I’m offering credit,” I told her.

  “What about the survey?” she asked.

  There was a survey?

  “Are you handing out the survey?” Rita wanted to know.

  Jeez, credit, surveys. What did these people expect for seven bucks an hour?

  “Look, Rita, you’re holding up my line,” I told her.

  She glared at me for a few more seconds, then walked away.

  “Do you take layaway?” the woman with the four kids and the double armload of clothes asked again.