Purses and Poison

by Dorothy Howell

  “Ty’s never actually said why he likes me,” I said.

  “Most men are like that,” Marcie said with a dismissive wave of her beer bottle.

  “I found out he’s going to Europe for several weeks, and he never even told me,” I said.

  Marcie shrugged. “It’s probably just a business trip.”

  I drew in a breath and said, “And, well, you know, things have been sort of weird with Ty and me.”

  Marcie translated my words instantly and her eyes widened. “You two still haven’t had sex?”

  “I don’t understand it, either,” I told her. “He’s always busy, or working, or in a meeting, or something.”

  “Yeah, but why wouldn’t he want to have sex?” Marcie asked, apparently as confused as I was.

  “Everybody wants to have sex,” I said.

  Or was that just me?

  “Could be a lot of reasons,” Marcie said.

  “Like what?”

  She thought for a moment, and I could see that she was anxious to come up with something that would make me feel better. I hoped she could.

  “Maybe he’s one of those weird men who’re not all that interested in sex,” Marcie suggested.

  “Disappointing, but a possibility,” I said.

  “He could have taken a vow of celibacy.”

  “Yeah, maybe…I guess.”

  Marcie thought for another minute. “Maybe he’s a D-I-Y kind of guy.”

  “Do-it-yourself? Gross,” I said.

  “That only leaves a couple of possibilities,” Marcie said, as kindly as anyone could say it. “Either he’s really too busy with work—”

  “Or he has another girlfriend,” I said, my spirits plummeting. “Claudia.”

  Marcie drained her beer. “So how did he act when he heard Claudia was dead? Was he completely devastated?”

  A little spark of hope flared inside me and I sat up straighter on the sofa as I remembered seeing him the day Claudia died.

  “No, not really,” I said. “Upset. Troubled. But not devastated.”

  “And since then?”

  “No more distracted and preoccupied than usual,” I reported.

  Marcie nodded wisely. “Okay, so there you are.”

  “You think this means nothing was going on between them?”

  “Makes sense,” Marcie concluded.

  She was almost always right about things. I hoped she was right about this.

  “I’ve got us another purse party lined up,” Marcie reported. “I’ll e-mail you the details.”

  “That awful Rita and her friend are still at it,” I told her. “They sold two hundred bags at their last party.”

  Marcie shrugged. “Whatever.”

  I’m not a whatever kind of gal. I had to do better than Rita and Tiffany. In fact, I wouldn’t be happy until we put them out of business.

  “Are you saving your share of the profits for that Judith Leiber evening bag?” Marcie asked.

  At once, every thought flew out of my head and my one active brain cell presented me with the image of that gorgeous bag I wanted to take to the charity gala at the Biltmore Hotel. I definitely had to get that bag. It was the only thing that could boost my spirits right now.

  Marcie rose from the sofa and picked up her handbag—a Fossill Tote in chocolate brown—and spotted the box that I’d dropped next to the end table.

  “Hey, cool,” she said.

  “It’s a sewing machine,” I told her.

  “I know,” she said, looking excited. “You should make some tops for yourself.”

  Yeah, right.

  “Want it?” I asked.

  Marcie gave me an odd look. “I already have one.”

  Wow, the things you learn about the people you think you know.

  “I can sell it on eBay, if you really don’t want it,” Marcie offered.

  “That’d be great,” I told her.

  She jotted down info from the side of the box, then headed for the front door. I followed.

  “I know things are tough right now,” Marcie said, then forced a smile. “But at least we’re still alive.”

  That knocked the Judith Leiber handbag, that stupid sewing machine, and almost everything else out of my head. See how Marcie was right about most things? Yeah, I was having my share of problems—more than my share, really—but I was alive.

  That’s more than could be said for Claudia.

  Several cars jammed the circular drive of the Gray home, so I nosed my Honda against the curb and got out. I’d selected a black Prada handbag for the occasion, and it went nicely with the conservative skirt and sweater I wore. Perfect attire for my covert, fact-finding operation.

  Talking with Marcie last night made me even more determined to learn the truth about Ty and Claudia. Everything Marcie said made perfect sense, and I had little real info to support my paranoia. I had to find out more.

  Since I’m not big on suspense and my confrontation skills are superior, I figured the best way to handle the situation was just ask Ty straight out.

  But I couldn’t do it.

  I didn’t want to see the look on Ty’s face if my suspicions were true, and I sure as heck didn’t want to look like a desperate, clingy girlfriend if they weren’t true.

  I’d stayed up late last night doing homework for my English class, and e-mailed the assignment a full forty-five seconds before the midnight deadline, along with an explanation that I wouldn’t be in class because of a death. I sent the same e-mail to my health class instructor. I usually went with the touch-of-the-stomach-flu excuse, a personal favorite of mine, but figured that Claudia’s demise might as well serve some purpose in my life, other than make me question my entire relationship with my sort-of boyfriend.

  This morning I’d stopped off at the florist’s and bought what the guy behind the counter assured me was a “subdued flower arrangement.” So now, under the guise of paying my respects, I headed up the walkway toward Claudia’s parents’ house in Brentwood.

  I’d known Claudia and her family for years. Mom had that whole model, beauty pageant connection with Claudia and her mother; plus, while not exactly old money, the Gray family was well off enough to travel in the same social circles as my mom’s.

  Claudia and I had never been friends. She was a few years older than me. We knew each other well enough to speak if we happened to run into each other, but that was about it. It suited both of us.

  As I approached the front door, it was opened by the housekeeper. She wore a black uniform. Her face was drawn and her eyes downcast.

  I stepped into the foyer and was slammed from all sides by a wave of grief and despair.

  Sorrow radiated from every room of the house. It washed over me, seeped into me, and knocked me for a mental loop.

  Oh my God. Oh my God. What had I been thinking? Coming here, at a time like this, to ask questions about Claudia and Ty? What was the matter with me? How could I have been so selfish?

  See how this thing with Ty was making me crazy?

  “Everyone is in the family room,” the housekeeper said in a low voice as she gestured down the hallway.

  No way was I going to hang around and see the family. I couldn’t face any of them—I wasn’t sure I could even face myself.

  I shoved the floral arrangement—which looked anything but “subdued” at the moment—at the housekeeper and turned to go. Someone called my name.

  I looked back and saw Rebecca, Claudia’s younger sister.

  Now, more than ever, I wanted to run out the door. But I couldn’t.

  Rebecca came forward. She had an Audrey Hepburn kind of thing going with black skinny jeans, a sweater, and flats. Her dark hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail.

  She was a few years younger than me—twenty, I think, or maybe twenty-one now. Rebecca was the “smart one” in the family, excelling in her premed classes. She’d already done a stint with Habitat for Humanity in New Orleans, helped build a water treatment plant in Africa, and collecte
d thousands of dollars to save the rain forest through a Web site she’d built.

  I knew this because, over time, I’d dragged it out of Mom as she’d raved about Claudia and the magazine covers she’d appeared on and the fashion shows she’d done.

  Despite all of Rebecca’s accomplishments, I’d always felt connected to her. Her older sister was beautiful, while Rebecca, like me, was merely pretty.

  But Rebecca didn’t look so good right now. Puffy, red eyes. Dark circles. Pink nose. Stooped shoulders, as if she couldn’t stand upright under the weight of her sister’s death.

  Not even a Snickers bar would make me feel better right now.

  “Haley, you’re so sweet to stop by,” Rebecca said, walking forward with some effort. She grasped my arm. “Come in.”

  I heard voices from deep in the house. I absolutely could not face anyone—especially the parents—with my conscience screaming at me over the stupid reason I’d come here.

  Which, now that I thought about it, is all Ty’s fault.

  “I don’t want to intrude,” I said, which was true, but for selfish reasons.

  Rebecca nodded. “Let’s go back here.”

  Still latched on to my arm, she led me down the hallway to a den that I doubted got much use. Decorated in deep blues, it had mahogany bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes, and oil paintings of ships on the walls.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “About…everything.”

  Rebecca nodded and wiped her nose with the tissue crumpled in her hand.

  “How’re your mom and dad?” I asked.

  “Awful.”

  Tears spilled down her cheeks, and she looked up at me, bewildered.

  “I don’t know how this could have happened,” Rebecca said. “It—it wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

  She started full-on crying and I just stood there, not sure what to do.

  But I’m female, right? I’m supposed to know how to handle things like this. It’s in my DNA, isn’t it?

  Rebecca kept crying and I kept standing there, waiting for my XY—or maybe they were XX—chromosomes to kick in. I think we covered that in health class—or maybe we didn’t.

  Anyway, nothing kicked in.

  I tried desperately to recall a similar situation and glean knowledge from how it had been handled.

  Nothing came to me.

  Then I tried to imagine what my mom would do in my place. I flashed on the mental picture of Mom demanding Juanita bring her a glass of wine, then telling Rebecca to fix her makeup.

  I could do better.

  “Sit down,” I told Rebecca, firmly but gently.

  We sat on the rock-hard sofa. I perched on the edge, my knees nearly touching Rebecca’s. She cried for a few more minutes, then wiped her cheeks with the tissue.

  “I—I just don’t understand,” Rebecca said.

  I wasn’t sure if the police had told the family yet that Claudia had been poisoned. But I’m sure word hadn’t spread that my mom’s fruit bouquets were the culprit. I wouldn’t have been invited in, otherwise.

  “Have the detectives been here?” I asked, as gently as I could.

  Rebecca nodded. “They—they said it wasn’t an…an accident. Somebody killed Claudia on purpose.”

  Another wave of sobs overtook her, and suddenly I saw myself in her place, overcome with grief if my own sister were to die. My sister and I weren’t exactly the best of friends—she was a lot like mom, with all that modeling and beauty pageant stuff—but I still loved her. What would I do if she’d been murdered?

  “But it wasn’t on purpose,” Rebecca insisted, worrying the tissue in her fingers. “It wasn’t. How could anybody think that?”

  Honestly, Claudia was so gorgeous, so accomplished, it’s a wonder she had any friends at all and that somebody hadn’t done her in years ago.

  Then I felt guilty for thinking that, so I said, “Claudia meant a lot to so many people.”

  Rebecca dabbed at her eyes. “People have come by and phoned, almost nonstop. Friends, the pageant girls she coached. Even her coworkers, and she’d only worked there a couple of months.”

  “Claudia had a job?” I asked. “A real job?”

  “L.A. Affairs.”

  Judging from the name, you might think L.A. Affairs was an escort service, but no, it was an event planning company. Their clientele was mostly celebrities and wealthy Hollywood insiders.

  “Mom—” Rebecca gulped and a fresh wave of tears poured down her cheeks. “Mom didn’t get to see her that…last day. She made me go instead. Now Mom’s angry with herself for not going to the runway show, for not—”

  “You came to the runway show? At Holt’s?” I asked. “I didn’t see you.”

  Rebecca gulped and her tears stopped. “You…you were there?”

  I realized I had to come up with a good reason for being there—I still wasn’t about to tell anybody that I worked at Holt’s.

  “I was checking out the chocolate fruit bouquets. My mom’s new business. I help out, sometimes,” I said.

  Rebecca’s breath stopped for a few seconds, and I got a really yucky feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  Maybe the detectives had told the family that the fruit bouquets had poisoned Claudia.

  “Those were your mom’s? I—I didn’t know. I thought the caterer had done them.” Rebecca shook her head. “I was only at the store for a few minutes. Mom made me drop off Claudia’s passport. Then I left.”

  “Did you see anything unusual that day?” I asked.

  Rebecca looked away. I guess maybe I shouldn’t have asked her to remember details about the day her sister died, especially since she’d been at the scene.

  Maybe I’m more like Mom than I like to believe.

  Not a great feeling.

  “I know Claudia had problems with the mother of one of the girls she coached,” Rebecca said. “The mom wanted her to do more, but Claudia insisted she wasn’t ready.”

  I opened my mouth, but Rebecca anticipated my question. After all, she’d been through this drill with the homicide detectives when they’d come to question the family.

  “I don’t know who it was. Claudia never said.” Rebecca drew a ragged breath. “She had a stalker.”

  “Claudia had a stalker?” I repeated, stunned. “Who was it?”

  Rebecca fiddled with the tissue for a moment. “She didn’t know.”

  The idea of a stalker creeped me out big time, so I couldn’t let it go.

  “She must have had some idea,” I said. “Somebody she’d worked with? A photographer, maybe? Or somebody—”

  “She had no idea,” Rebecca told me.

  “That’s why she was needed her passport, wasn’t it?” I said, thinking of how desperate Claudia must have been, and feeling even more guilty for every unkind thought I’d ever had about her. “She was leaving the country to get away from him.”

  “No, no, that’s not the reason,” Rebecca said. She sank back onto the sofa and said, “I just wish all of this would go away.”

  I felt like an insensitive idiot for coming here, for being consumed with my own sort-of boyfriend problems when Rebecca’s family had suffered this devastating loss. And as much as I’d like to blame Ty for bringing me to this point, the truth was that this was all on me.

  I had to make up for this. I had to do something.

  Then it came to me: I had to find Claudia’s murderer.

  Nothing would make up for my callous disregard for their loss, but at least it would help them to know the killer had been found and would pay for his crime. It was the best I could do. I hoped it would be good enough.

  “I’ll make it go away,” I told Rebecca. “I’ll find Claudia’s murderer.”

  Her gaze whipped toward me. “What?”

  “I’ve done it before,” I told her. “Last fall. I solved a murder. The police were stumped, but I figured it out. All by myself. And there were other crimes, too. I figured out who was behind all of them.”

  �
�But…”

  I took Rebecca’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I swear to you, I’ll find Claudia’s killer. And I won’t let anything—anything—stop me.”

  Rebecca just stared, too overcome to speak. I couldn’t blame her. The conviction I heard in my own voice startled even me.

  “This stalker. He sounds like a good place to start,” I said. “If you think of anything else that might help, let me know, will you?”

  “Yeah, yeah, sure,” Rebecca said, wiping her nose.

  Her voice sounded a little stronger now, so I figured my vow to find Claudia’s killer had started the healing process. I felt stronger, too, ready to take on this investigation, make things right.

  My mind skipped ahead, making a mental list of people to talk to, things to check out. I knew I had to start with Claudia herself.

  “So, where was she going for vacation?” I asked. My stomach tingled, like this might be just the clue I needed to solve her murder.

  “Claudia wasn’t going on vacation. It was work. She’s—she was—leaving next week. Some big modeling assignment in Europe.”

  The tingle in my stomach turned into a hard brick.

  Claudia had been going to Europe?

  So was Ty.

  Chapter 9

  It was a Fendi day. Definitely a Fendi day.

  A Fendi handbag would look perfect with the really sharp, brown Armani business suit I had on, but I’d carried Fendi the last time I’d visited the Golden State Bank & Trust, so this morning I had to do something different.

  That made it a Louis Vuitton day.

  According to my mom, too much Louis makes it look like you’re trying too hard; just one of her pearls of fashion wisdom that have served so many so well. So I’d left my LV organizer in the car—the one Ty surprised me with, which proved his devotion to me, didn’t it?—and just carried my purse.

  I’d gotten a call from Bradley Olsen’s secretary yesterday saying Mr. Olsen would like to meet with me this morning. I’d also gotten a call from my mom wanting us to go shopping today for gowns to wear to the charity gala at the Biltmore Hotel.

  No way was I doing that.

  I told her I had class. That’s the one good thing about going to college. It’s the perfect reason to get out of absolutely everything. Over the past few weeks, I’ve used that excuse with Mom so many times that, to anyone else, it would seem that I was in class twenty-four-seven.