“Here’s the plan,” Marcie said as she gave the keys to the parking attendant and we headed for the stairs. “We’ll get the best bags at the best prices. The vendors will cut their prices, sometimes, if we buy in quantity.”
We took the stairs and emerged near the entrance of a men’s clothing store in Santee Alley. This place was the spot to shop for bargain hunters, according to Marcie. It was only four blocks—tiny compared to the ninety or so blocks of the Fashion District—but the deals didn’t get hotter anywhere than in the Alley.
Two-and three-story buildings backed up to Santee Alley, their rear doors open, inviting shoppers in. Booths, stalls, racks, makeshift tables spilled out into the Alley, crowded together, loaded with formal wear, sport clothes, Italian menswear, lingerie. Sunglasses, toys, portable stereos, pirated DVDs and CDs.
We made our way through the crowd past displays of shoes, iPod and cell phone cases, cigarette lighters. Spanish music blared from somewhere. The rich aroma of food wafted past.
“Okay, this is it,” Marcie announced with a grand gesture.
My heart jumped.
Oh my God. Purses. Everywhere. Hanging on hooks, displayed on tables, piled up in boxes, dangling over doorways. Walls of purses. Kate Spade, Gucci, Prada, Burberry, Ferragamo, Louis Vuitton, Chanel. Coach—I loved their line last spring. I spotted a half dozen Marc Jacobs. And—oh my God—the latest Kenneth Cole. A huge display of Chloe and Mulberry. Satchels, clutches, hobos, buckets—every style imaginable. Great fabrics, leathers, colors.
“These are all knockoffs?” I asked Marcie, hoping against all hope that she’d tell me they were the real things.
“Faux,” Marcie corrected. She studied me for a moment. “Are you okay with this?”
Marcie knows my aversion to nondesigner handbags, but she didn’t know how desperate I was for the money our purse party would generate. There are some things you can’t tell even your best friend.
I’d gone by the bank this morning and taken a cash advance on my last credit card—running it to within thirty dollars of the limit—to buy the bags today. This was my chance to make some serious cash. I wasn’t turning back now, even if I had an all-out allergic reaction to the fauxs, and broke out in hives.
“Let’s hit it,” I said.
I can be really strong when I need to.
We went from vendor to vendor, checking the quality of the bags. Some weren’t so good. Crooked stitching, loose clasps and handles. No way were we buying those. I mean, we had a reputation to uphold with our purse parties.
A few of the merchants had second-rate knockoffs, though you might not think that was possible. Marcie had a good eye. She showed me what to look for—Louis Vuitton bags without the “LV,” Dooney & Bourke bags printed with the initials “DP”—and, thanks to the many years I’d dedicated to serious shopping, I caught on right away. We spotted the less-desirable bags and moved on.
We stopped at a display of Gucci, Prada, and Ferragamo bags.
“How much?” I asked the woman standing beside a table of terrariums filled with live baby turtles. She was young, Hispanic, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and spoke with the customers in both Spanish and English.
“Twelve dollar,” she said. “Ten for wallets.”
My eyes widened. Twelve bucks? For a Gucci purse? I couldn’t believe these prices. The genuine bags go for three hundred, four hundred—some for over a thousand.
“How much for ten?” Marcie asked. Wow, she was a real pro at this.
The woman didn’t hesitate. “Ten dollar. Eight for wallets.”
Perfect. Just the sort of deal we needed.
We dug in. Marcie picked out purses while I found matching wallets. The Hispanic woman saw we were into volume buying so she went to a stockroom somewhere and brought out a few bags that weren’t on display. They looked great. We bought them all. We paid in cash, received no receipt, and moved on.
I was into it now. Ready to wheel and deal.
We bought Burberry bags and cosmetic cases and I talked the guy down on those. Then we found a Kate Spade vendor and got a half dozen bags. Same with Prada and Chanel, and just about every other designer I could think of. The Louis Vuitton handbags were pricey, up to about seventy-five dollars each, but we got several. I mean, come on, they were Louis Vuitton. How could we possibly have a purse party without Louis Vuitton bags?
For a crazy second I looked for that organizer I was dying to have. But I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t buy a faux for myself, no matter how much I wanted it.
Guess I’m really a designer handbag snob.
Near the end of the Alley a guy stood on the crate calling, “Five dollars, five dollars. Everything five dollars. Good price,” in English and in Spanish. We checked it out. No designer bags but some really hip styles. We bought five, just to see how they sold at the purse party.
Two hours later we were exhausted, broke, and struggling to carry huge bags of purses back to Marcie’s Pilot. Luckily, some of the vendors had stuck self-adhesive handles onto the black plastic bags, making them easier to manage.
On the drive home we decided on pricing and calculated the profit we’d make from the party. A nice chunk of change, if they all sold.
For a minute I thought about selling my own, genuine purses, the ones Craig had given me for cost. The horror of parting with them gave me brain-freeze for a few seconds. Then I realized that, even at cost, those bags would still be too expensive for the average person. Only someone devoted to designer purses would part with that kind of money. A store might buy them from me, though, but they would be interested in quantity, not the few I’d bought from Holt’s. And besides, I’d need a connection to a store buyer, which I didn’t have.
“If this purse party goes well, we can have them all the time. Our own business,” Marcie said. “Do you think you’ll want to do this after you go back to work at Pike Warner?”
I hadn’t told her about my job. I hadn’t told anybody, but I couldn’t keep the truth from Marcie, my best friend, so I told her what Jack had learned. Marcie was livid, as a best friend should be.
“I called Kirk but I haven’t heard from him yet,” I said. I’d tried him on his cell phone; I couldn’t bring myself to call him at the office. Not after what had happened with his secretary when I was there the other day.
“Forget Kirk,” Marcie told me. She can be really forceful sometimes. “You need to go to the top on this. Start with Mrs. Drexler.”
“I don’t want to go in blind,” I said. “I need more info. Jack’s still checking into things.”
Marcie didn’t disagree so I guess she was satisfied with my plan.
She dropped me off at my apartment, and I had just enough time to change and get to Holt’s for my shift. But as I dodged customers coming out of the store, and saw who waited there, I knew I was going to be late.
Detective Shuman.
For a second, I considered running back to my car, hauling ass out of the parking lot, making a run for—somewhere. But then I figured that if Detective Madison wasn’t with him, I probably wasn’t about to be arrested. Madison wouldn’t want to miss that.
“My girlfriend loved the scarf,” Shuman said.
He had a big, goofy grin on his face so I figured my birthday gift recommendation must have led to a night of wild sex. I didn’t think Shuman had it in him.
It’s always the quiet ones, you know.
“Do you think I should get her the matching wallet for Christmas?” Shuman asked. He frowned. “I don’t want to look too anxious.”
“Timing’s perfect.”
He thought over my advice, then nodded. “Okay. I’ll do it.”
We stood there for another minute just looking at each other. Cars crowded the parking lot, racing from aisle to aisle, trying to get a good space near the doors. Customers hurried into the store, then out again, struggling to carry big bags of merchandise.
I thought about Grace inside at the customer service booth, facing a long
line, expecting me to show up and help. I didn’t like leaving her hanging, but I couldn’t go in. Not yet.
I didn’t know if Shuman had come all the way to the store just to ask me what to get his girlfriend for Christmas, or if he had something else on his mind. Something unofficial.
“So,” I said, trying to sound cheery. “Solved any good homicides lately?”
Shuman grinned. He had a great grin.
“No, but I’m making progress,” he said. “Ruled out a few suspects.”
“Anyone I know?” I asked, as if we were discussing the weather.
“Neighbors,” he said. “Both have alibis.”
Damn. Richard’s neighbors weren’t suspects anymore. They’d both been cleared. So who was left?
Me.
I felt a little queasy, realizing that this was why Detective Shuman had come here tonight. To warn me. He’d have known I’d ask about the investigation. This way he could give me a heads-up, off the record.
I glanced at my car in the parking lot. Maybe making a break for it wasn’t such a bad idea.
It might be kind of cool. Me, loose on the open road, taking in the sights, shopping my way from state to state. Of course, I’d need money for that. Money I didn’t have.
So much for that little fantasy.
I’d have to stay. But that didn’t mean I intended to go down for Richard’s murder.
“You know, he was involved with someone here in the store,” I said, trying not to sound desperate.
“Glenna Webb,” Shuman said, and I was surprised he already knew about her. I wondered who in the store had told him. “Air-tight alibi.”
“What about her husband?” Okay, now I was sounding desperate. “He was at the store that night. I saw him.”
Shuman frowned. “You’re sure?”
“Positive. And Richard threatened to fire one of the employees the night he was murdered.”
I’m sounding really desperate now.
“Sophia Garcia,” Shuman said, then shook his head. “The surveillance tapes show her in the shoe department at the time of the murder.”
Damn. Those surveillance cameras and tapes. I kept forgetting about those things.
“What about Jeanette Avery?” I asked.
Shuman looked interested now. “What about her?”
Jeez, what was I going to say? I didn’t have any evidence, just suspicion and theory. But now that I’d mentioned Jeanette, I couldn’t back away.
“I think Richard was after her job,” I said. “He’d done that before, in the Northridge store. She’s kind of old and probably can’t get another manager’s job very easily.”
Now that I’d said it out loud, it sounded really lame. But Shuman had the good grace not to laugh in my face.
“I guess that sounds crazy,” I admitted.
He shrugged. “Not as crazy as some of the tips we get. Somebody phoned in an anonymous tip that Richard was a cross-dresser working in a transvestite club in Hollywood.”
“How do these rumors get started?” I mused.
“Any more suspects?” he asked, nodding toward the store.
I supposed he was just being nice so I wouldn’t feel like such an idiot, and I liked that about him.
“No, that’s it,” I said.
“Sure?” Shuman tilted his head. “Nobody else?”
If I’d suspected anyone else, I’d have told him. But I didn’t, so I just shook my head.
“I’ll check out the store manager,” Shuman promised.
I wish I could put him to work investigating my job at Pike Warner, but I didn’t want him to know about it. He’d be obligated to share the news with Detective Madison and I didn’t want to give that old bastard any more ammunition he might twist to use against me.
I wished too that Shuman could take me to the police station so I could get a look at those stockroom surveillance tapes. While I didn’t really want to see myself lounging on the king-size Laura Ashley bed-in-a-bag sets when I was supposed to be working, I knew—just knew—that, if I looked at those tapes, I’d see something that the lazy-ass, soon-to-retire Detective Madison had missed.
But I didn’t waste my breath asking. No way would Shuman agree to that, no matter how wild a night of sex he’d had with his girlfriend, thanks to my Burberry scarf birthday gift idea.
“If you need help picking out the wallet, let me know,” I said.
Shuman nodded and walked into the parking lot. I went into the store.
Late.
CHAPTER 22
I was late now and I had a vision of Rita in the break room beside the time clock, glaring and smiling at the same time. But Rita wasn’t there. Ty was. He was fiddling with his BlackBerry, as if he’d been waiting for me.
He looked serious. Troubled. Something.
Ty glanced at the two employees seated at a table, eating and flipping through magazines.
“Could I speak with you for a moment?” he asked, sounding every bit the chain store owner.
Now what?
Jeez, he’d caught me on the Laura Ashley bed-in-a-bag sets, crying on duty, talking crap about the merchandise, giving an unauthorized discount to a customer. I’d told him to get screwed in front of his grandmother. What could he be upset about?
Jeanette.
She’d probably told him how I’d nearly gone over the desk after her when she’d tried to write me up for those bogus complaints against me. I guess Ty didn’t appreciate my “spirit” the way his grandmother had.
I grabbed my time card and punched in. If I was about to get fired, I was getting paid for it.
I headed for my locker to put my purse away, but Ty stopped me.
“You’ll want to keep that with you,” he said.
Oh my God, he was going to fire me.
“Look,” I said. “Those things Craig said were lies. All lies. I don’t care what Jeanette says, I—”
“What things?” he asked, looking concerned.
Oh my God. He doesn’t know. Jeanette didn’t tell him.
“Nothing,” I said and waved the air between us. “Never mind. What did you want to talk to me about?”
He kept frowning and for a few seconds I thought he might press for details, but he didn’t.
“Actually, I’d like you to come somewhere with me,” Ty said, then added hastily, “It’s business. I’d like your opinion on something.”
Is my life weird, or what?
“You mean now?” I asked. He nodded and I said, “I’m supposed to be working.”
“I got someone to cover your shift.”
“Somebody who knows the customer service booth?” I asked. “I don’t want Grace stuck in there without good help.”
“It’s handled. Will you go?”
I had no idea where he wanted to take me. I hardly knew Ty, really. What if he was some psycho?
But this was the closest thing I’d had to a date lately—even if Ty had already told me it was business—so what the hell?
“Sure,” I said.
Outside, he opened the door for me and I got into his car, a BMW 750i sedan—a plush ride—and we pulled out of the parking lot.
“So, where are we going?” I asked.
For a second I fantasized he would confess that he’d only said this was a business trip to get me away from the store. That we were headed up the coast to a quaint little B&B overlooking the ocean. That I was so hot he couldn’t live without me another minute. That he was sick of women like stuffy, boring Sarah Covington who talked about nothing but—
“I wanted your opinion on the location of a new store.” Ty glanced at me. “You live near here, right?”
My heart sank a little. I guess he’d gone through the employment records of everyone at Holt’s looking for someone who lived in the area, and he’d come up with me.
Frankly, I couldn’t have cared less that Holt’s was opening another store. I didn’t feel all that great about being here with Ty either. He had on jeans and a polo shirt, and I
was in khakis and a red sweater. I figured he’d dressed down, knowing he’d be with me tonight.
Not a great feeling.
“Yeah, I live near here,” I said. “And, really, I don’t think there’s any need for another store like Holt’s.”
I thought he might whip around and head back to the store, but he didn’t. He kept driving. His cell phone rang. I turned my head to look out the window, pretending to be courteous and allow him privacy for his call, but I listened to every word. Some problem with an advertising agency. I figured he was talking to Sarah Covington and it irked me. I imagined her making notes in her Louis Vuitton organizer. Bitch.
Ty hung up as we drove past a mall I shopped at sometimes. It was a good mall, a nice mix of upscale and midrange stores. One end opened to an outside plaza with benches and flowers, surrounded by restaurants. The area continued for several blocks with office buildings, trendy shops, art galleries, boutiques, a travel agency, candy store, a bookstore, a movie theater, and more great places to eat. It had a small town feel. Narrow streets, wide sidewalks that urged shoppers to stroll, huge display windows inviting them inside.
Ty nosed the Beemer into a space at the curb. It was dark now, and the trees along the street glowed with tiny white lights. Music floated from speakers hidden in the shrubs. At some of the restaurants fire pits burned, warming the outdoor seating areas.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to knock down all these great stores and put in a Holt’s,” I said, getting out of the car.
I sounded kind of bitchy because that’s how I felt.
“So you like this area?” Ty asked.
“For these specialty shops, yes,” I said.
Ty stood there, gazing across the street for so long that I got annoyed.
“Are we done?” I asked.
Okay, now I’m sounding really bitchy.
He looked back at me, as if he’d forgotten I was standing there.
“Would you like to have dinner?” he asked, gesturing across the street. “I’d really like your opinion on this.”
I’d already given my opinion, but apparently he hadn’t been listening.
“I guess,” I said.
This was hardly the romantic, first-date evening I’d envisioned with Ty. This was business.
Handbags and Homicide Page 20