Handbags and Homicide

by Dorothy Howell

  So what was different about that night? What caused someone to murder Richard? And for what reason? Why would someone sneak into the stockroom through the loading dock, go upstairs, and kill him?

  And could Craig really have been in the stockroom, near the loading dock, and not noticed anything? It seemed suspicious to me—really suspicious, not like with Jeanette, or Sophia, or Glenna’s husband. It made me wonder about everything Craig had said and done.

  I didn’t trust him, that’s for sure. Maybe I needed to find out more about him.

  I found the Holt’s store directory and looked up Craig’s home phone number, then called Jack Bishop.

  I can’t do surveillance work. I haven’t got the bladder for it.

  I’d been sitting in my car for two hours, parked across the street and down the block from Craig’s house. Jack got me his address last night—I still don’t know how he does that so quickly—and I decided to check out the place first thing this morning, see if anything suspicious was going on. Like maybe Craig lived beyond his means in an expensive neighborhood, or drove a luxury car. But his place in Van Nuys was in an older, middle-class neighborhood that showed signs of age and slight neglect, and the car parked in his driveway was the Chevy Blazer I’d seen him in at the store.

  So far, the only thing suspicious about Craig’s place was me sitting in the car, watching his house.

  I thought maybe I could catch Craig going somewhere and I could follow him. That would be way cool. I could tail him through the city, just like Jack had done when Ty and I were out the other night, and see where he went, what he did. Maybe I’d see him doing something illegal, find some evidence that he was involved with Richard’s murder.

  But, so far, nothing. All I’d done was sit here watching his house. He hadn’t gone anywhere. The neighborhood had been busy for a while, with kids heading off for school and people going to work. Nothing now.

  I’d brought magazines to entertain myself, and gone through the McDonald’s drive-through for breakfast. My car reeked of fast food and I had to pee.

  Somehow, this seemed more glamorous when Jack did it.

  I glanced at my watch. Four more minutes had crawled by. I’d read the magazines cover to cover, so that left me nothing to do but think. Pike Warner bloomed in my mind. Since Jack had told me the whole situation there, I’d been so focused on clearing myself of murder charges I hadn’t had time to think too much about it. I had called Kirk a couple of times, though, so I could update him on what happened, but hadn’t heard back from him.

  I dug through my purse—a Tory Burch T-tote seemed appropriate for a stakeout—came up with a pen and sales receipt to write on, and jotted some notes.

  Somebody had stolen my identity and concocted an elaborate scheme to steal a huge chunk of Pike Warner’s money. Who would do that? And why would they target me?

  I put two big stars beside both of those questions because I had no answers for them, then moved on.

  Those fraudulent vendor folders were already in the file cabinet at my desk on my first day, so someone had put them in there. Someone intended to defraud Pike Warner. Someone had set me up.

  Mrs. Drexler hadn’t liked me from the very start. That first day I’d gotten a sink-or-swim impression from her.

  Had she tried to get rid of me?

  A little tingle raced up my spine. Oh my God. What if I could pin the fraud and embezzlement on Mrs. Drexler, and the murder on Rita? Wouldn’t that be just the coolest thing?

  I decided to call Kirk again. Perhaps he could give me some incriminating info, like maybe Mrs. Drexler had quit her job suddenly and moved to the Cayman Islands, or something.

  I found my cell phone and called Kirk, but his voice mail came on again. I really needed to talk to him. According to my watch, another five minutes had somehow chugged by. After nine now. Pike Warner was open.

  I hated calling the office. Wanda would answer the phone, then transfer me to Beth, Kirk’s bitch-ass secretary. Both would want to know my name, and once I’d given it, they’d probably hang up on me, then talk about me to all the other secretaries in the break room.

  But who said I had to give my own name?

  I phoned the office, and when Wanda asked who was calling, I replied, “Sarah Covington from Holt’s corporate office.” She transferred me immediately.

  Beth sounded a little more guarded, and I wondered if she had caller ID and knew it was really me. But she didn’t sound suspicious when I gave Sarah’s name again.

  “Mr. Keegan is unavailable,” Beth said, as if this were a normal, routine part of her daily work.

  Unavailable? Kirk was unavailable? At a time like this?

  Of course, in secretary-speak, “unavailable” could mean anything, from he was in court, to taking a leak. But how could Kirk be unavailable now? When I needed him?

  “I’ll have him phone you, Miss Covington,” Beth said.

  No, this can’t be happening. It can’t.

  Beth said something else but I just hung up and threw my head back. I absolutely have to talk to Kirk. What am I going to do—

  Oh my God.

  I sat up straight in my seat. A car was in Craig’s driveway alongside the Blazer. An old Toyota with the hatchback up; grocery bags were piled inside. When did that get here? And, jeez, the garage door was open. Who opened it?

  Craig walked out of the garage, looking a little frazzled. I ducked down in my seat. He loaded up his arms with the grocery bags and went into the garage again.

  Craig was at the grocery store? I’d been sitting here for over two hours, watching his house, waiting for him to go somewhere, and all along he wasn’t even here?

  I’m really bad at this surveillance thing.

  But I wasn’t going to let this whole morning be wasted—plus, I couldn’t bear to sit in this car another minute. I grabbed the disguise I’d assembled this morning—I don’t think Jack wore a disguise, I’ll have to ask him—and put it on: Nike cap and sunglasses, which nicely complemented the jogging attire I’d worn. I got out of the car.

  My muscles screamed. I was stiff and sore, and I really had to pee now, so I started walking briskly down the street, as if I were readying myself for a jog. I kept my gaze glued to Craig’s house. There were more bags of groceries in the back of the Toyota. He’d come for them any minute.

  At the entrance to his driveway I dropped down near the back bumper of his Blazer, and retied my shoe while I got a good look inside his garage.

  Nothing. No dead bodies wrapped in plastic, no marijuana plants growing under heat lamps, no bloody hacksaws hanging from the Peg-Board over his work bench. Just usual garage stuff. A bicycle with a missing wheel, shelves of dusty boxes, a toolbox, a fertilizer spreader, plastic bags of purses, gardening tools—

  Purses?

  I sprang to my feet, then remembered that I was on a covert operation, and ducked down again.

  I craned my neck, looking into the garage, thinking maybe I was mistaken. But no, those were handbags. Two big plastic bags of them sitting on the workbench. One of the bags had turned over and several had spilled out, each wrapped in cellophane. Gucci totes and satchels. Prada clutches.

  Oh my God, Craig had stolen those purses from Holt’s. He’d stolen them and he was going to—

  No, wait. Something was wrong here. I squinted into the garage, homing in on the bags’ detailing.

  Knockoffs.

  They were counterfeit bags, just like the ones Marcie and I had bought at the Fashion District for our purse party. I even recognized the black plastic bags with the self-adhesive handles attached to them. Why on earth would Craig have dozens of faux handbags in his garage?

  Deep inside the garage I heard the connecting door to the house open. Craig was coming back. I took off down the street, away from my car so as not to draw attention, jogging slowly but thinking hard.

  Then it hit me.

  Oh, my God. He’d stolen my purse party idea. Craig had heard in Holt’s that I was selling
faux bags. That’s why he’d made up those lies about me, told them to Jeanette, tried to get me fired. That rat-bastard had wanted to get rid of me so I wouldn’t find out that he’d jacked my new business venture.

  Livid, I jogged back to my car. This didn’t prove Craig was a murderer, but I wasn’t done investigating him. Not even close.

  As if my day hadn’t been bad enough, now I had to go to my mom’s house. She’d asked me a couple of times to bring her the paperwork for the Edible Elegance food bouquets she donated at the fund-raiser, and I couldn’t put it off any longer.

  My cell phone rang as I was driving east on the 210 freeway. Jack Bishop’s name popped up on the caller ID, which boosted my spirits a little.

  “That Hasselhoff scumbag dropped his suit,” Jack said when I answered.

  I heard car noises in the background and realized he was driving too. I glanced in the rearview mirror, thinking maybe he was trailing me again. He wasn’t. Darn it.

  “So you owe me one,” I told him.

  “Ready to collect?” Jack asked, in that deep, mellow voice that always gave me a warm chill.

  “I’ll let you know,” I said.

  “What’s up with Craig Matthews? You find the guy?”

  A bolt of anger shot through me, as I remembered this morning. But I wasn’t going into the details of my purse party business with Jack.

  “It was nothing,” I said, then realized there was something else I could ask him about. “Have you seen Kirk Keegan around the office? I really need to talk to him. I’ve called him a half dozen times, or something, and I haven’t heard back.”

  Jack paused for a moment, then said, “I’ll check into it.”

  “Guess that means I owe you again,” I said.

  “That’s the way I like it,” he said, then hung up.

  I tossed my cell phone into the passenger seat and felt myself smile for the first time today. Jack always popped up at crazy times, just when I needed him. Like he knew, somehow. And no matter how things turned out with Pike Warner, I’d always have my friendship—or whatever it was—with Jack to thank for it, since that’s where we met.

  I changed lanes and realized I’d slowed down a little—I was barely doing ten miles an hour over the speed limit—thinking that, really, I had Kirk to thank for it too. I wouldn’t have gotten my job at the firm if it hadn’t been for that chance meeting with Kirk at the club that night, if he hadn’t recommended me for the job, set things up with HR. Even though nothing romantic had ever happened between the two of us, we’d had some fun times together, meeting for drinks. I’d seen him at the office occasionally, even though he was usually too busy to talk. I guess it was fitting that I’d seen him outside the accounting department that last day, just before Mrs. Drexler called me into her office and told me—

  Hang on.

  I whipped around an SUV, driving faster as my thoughts sped up.

  Maybe that chance meeting with Kirk at the club wasn’t just chance, after all. What if he’d been looking for someone like me? Someone—

  My stomach started to feel really icky as the scenario played out in my mind. Kirk had gotten me the job. He’d been in the accounting department the first morning I’d reported for work—I’d been so happy to see a friendly face that day—and he’d been there again on my last day.

  Oh my God. Kirk set me up.

  He’d gotten me hired, slipped those fraudulent vendor files into my cabinet, then taken them out when he learned—probably through his friend in HR—that I was about to be canned. He’d been with me at the club the night my purse was stolen. He could have set that up too, then used my ID—with the help of an accomplice who looked vaguely like my DMV photo—to open that account at the Golden State Bank and Trust.

  But why me? Why had Kirk singled me out? What was it about me that made him think he could get away with it?

  Because I was stupid.

  The realization sickened me, but I knew it was true.

  He’d seen me at the club—maybe he’d been watching me for a while, since I go there often, and I didn’t realize it—and he’d figured out that I was smart enough to get the job at Pike Warner, but not smart enough to suspect him of any wrongdoing, or figure out that he’d embezzled funds from the firm, using me for cover. Too consumed with partying, clothes, handbags—not that there’s anything wrong with them—to be aware of what was going on.

  Sarah Covington flashed in my head. So did Detective Shuman’s girlfriend. Kirk Keegan would never have targeted one of them.

  I was feeling really sick now. What the hell was wrong with me? How could I let myself get into this fix?

  Now I was doubly sick because I realized I was at my mom’s house. I parked in the circular drive beside a Mercedes I didn’t recognize, and dragged myself out of the car. Mom had company. But that was okay. I could drop off the papers for her accountant and get out before she even knew I was there.

  As I crossed the driveway the front door opened and a young woman walked out. Wow, she was gorgeous. Not just pretty, or beautiful, but stunning. Tall, great shape, blond. Hair, makeup, nails, everything was perfect. She obviously spent every waking moment on her appearance.

  And my hair was in a ponytail and I was wearing sweats.

  My day just keeps getting better.

  We exchanged a polite smile as we passed and I went into the house. Mom was in the living room, off to my right, standing at the window looking out.

  Obviously, it wasn’t me she’d been watching.

  “I brought those papers from the fund-raiser,” I said, and tossed them on the end table, thinking I could get away quick.

  Mom didn’t answer, just gazed outside, shaking her head with sadness.

  “It’s such a shame,” she said and sighed deeply.

  I didn’t ask what she was talking about, but that never stops my mom from telling me. She turned away from the window.

  “That was Claudia Gray,” Mom said with such gravity I thought maybe Claudia had cancer or something.

  Her name finally registered. Claudia was a pageant contestant. Mom was in a group—or coven, as I like to think of it—of former beauty queens who mentored and sponsored rising stars of the pageant world. I’d known Claudia for years but rarely saw her.

  “I was suspicious of Maxine,” Mom said, arching one perfectly waxed brow, “so I did a little investigating on my own.”

  I wasn’t in the mood for one of Mom’s connect-the-dots conversations. Not that it mattered, of course.

  “Claudia ended it.” Mom was clearly awed by Claudia’s courage, as if she’d taken down a terrorist cell knowing full well she might break a nail. “After months together, she called it off. Not that I blame her, of course.”

  Okay, here was a big chunk of gossip that, normally, I’d jump into with both feet. But my life was falling apart, I was questioning everything I’d done for the past four years, I was up to my eyeballs in two different criminal cases, I was flat broke, I didn’t have a boyfriend, and I really didn’t care about someone else’s problem.

  Mom, however, didn’t pick up on that.

  “He was consumed by his work,” Mom said, completely baffled. “Constant interruptions, rushing off for meetings, always something important to handle.”

  “I have to go now, Mom.”

  “Claudia would always have been second in his life, and she knew it. So she broke it off.”

  “I put the papers for the accountant on the table,” I said, easing toward the door.

  “He was slumming.” She narrowed her eyes. “Completely taken with some little…thing…some salesclerk.”

  That hit a nerve. I guess I was just ready for a fight, or something, because I said, “So, what’s wrong with a salesclerk? They’re hardworking people, and they put up with a lot of crap, for not much money, from customers who think they can treat them like dirt.”

  “But—”

  “I know a lot of salesclerks, Mom, and most every one of them is honest, and friendl
y, and decent.”

  Stunned, Mom said, “But I only asked about Claudia because of you.”

  Now I had no clue what Mom was talking about.

  “At the fund-raiser,” she said. “You talked to him. You asked me if he had a girlfriend and I told you I would…”

  A roaring noise in my brain blocked out Mom’s words. My heart hammered in my chest, then beat its way up to my ears.

  Ty. She was talking about Ty. And Claudia—gorgeous, beautiful, perfectly groomed, shapely, toned, tanned, blond Claudia—had been dating him.

  And I’d been stupid enough to think he might be interested in me.

  I couldn’t take it. I headed for the door.

  In a stunning turn of events, Mom followed me. I could see she was upset, but I didn’t have it in me to say anything to try and make her feel better.

  “Haley, please,” Mom said. “I didn’t mean to imply that this clerk, whoever she is, might not be of some consequence. Ada met her and, I heard, liked her very much. Claimed she had spirit, and—”

  “I’ve got to go, Mom.”

  I hurried out of the door, jumped in my car, and raced down the driveway, feeling like the biggest idiot on the planet. Handsome, successful, wealthy Ty Cameron, who could have any woman he wanted—including Claudia Gray, apparently—might be interested in me. How stupid of me.

  I hit the freeway entrance ramp and cut across two lanes of traffic. All I could see was the mental image of me, looking idiotic—again. Just like everything else that had gone on in the past couple of weeks. Just like—

  Wait.

  I cut back across to the slow lane as the rest of my conversation with Mom surfaced in my memory. Ty was completely taken by—translation: hot after—a salesclerk. Someone his grandmother Ada had met. Someone she thought had spirit.

  Oh my God. Oh my God.

  I swerved onto the shoulder and hit the brakes. My right fender scraped the retaining wall as I slid to a stop. I hopped up and down in the seat.

  That’s me.

  Ty’s hot after me.

  CHAPTER 25