Purses and Poison

by Dorothy Howell

  “I’m seeing a friend,” I said. “She’s sick.”

  I reached for my door handle, but Doug stepped over and opened it for me.

  “Maybe some other time?” he asked.

  “Yeah, sure,” I said, and got into my car and drove away.

  I glanced at the house in the rearview mirror—my favorite way of seeing it—glad that I’d accomplished something here.

  I knew Mom hadn’t been in contact with Holt’s or Debbie to pass on the list of names for the chocolate tags. If the police checked her computer, they’d see that.

  Mom could have faxed the list, of course. I didn’t think she knew how to operate a fax machine, and I couldn’t picture her running into Staples to use one available to the general public, so that didn’t seem likely.

  Detective Madison popped into my mind and I imagined him asking, “But what better way to cover it up?”

  Oh, crap.

  I ran by my apartment and changed out of my Armani suit and into khaki pants and a brown sweater. I freshened my hair and makeup—as Mom says: if you’re pretty, people will like you—and got to the store a full ninety seconds before my shift started. In the employees’ break room about a dozen people stood by the time clock. Rita had posted herself beside the whiteboard, red marker in her hand, anxious to take names and ruin lives.

  “I want all of this stuff out of here by closing,” Rita said to me, and nodded across the room.

  Heaped on the table beside the refrigerator were cases and bags of—oh my God, was that cat food?

  “What are you telling me for?” I demanded.

  “You’re the one who said there were cats in the stockroom,” Rita told me. “You’re the one who volunteered to feed them.”

  Volunteered? Me? No way.

  I’d adopted a strict policy of never volunteering for anything back in fourth grade when I offered to bring cookies to the class Valentine party, and Mom put Chips Ahoy cookies in a plastic container and tried to pass them off as home baked. How embarrassing.

  “You’ve been sniffing your marking pen too long,” I told Rita. “I never said I’d—”

  “You told Jeanette you’d do it at the meeting,” she said.

  Okay, this sort of rang a bell. I’d drifted off and then Jeanette had called my name and…

  Maybe I should start paying attention in the meetings.

  I felt the employees at the time clock staring at me now. They’d all spent part of their pittance of a salary to help feed the nonexistent cats in our stockroom. So what could I do?

  “This is great,” I said, gesturing to the mountain of cat food on the table. “Those little kitties will be well fed.”

  Everybody smiled, shoved their time cards into the time clock, feeling like they’d done something good. And I guess it was good for me, too—feeding the supposed cats would be the perfect excuse for leaving the sales floor.

  I took up my usual spot in line—dead last—and checked the work schedule clamped to a clipboard on the wall. I was assigned to domestics—that’s retail speak for bedroom stuff—then found Bella’s name on the list and saw where she was working tonight.

  The store seemed kind of quiet as I headed for the housewares department, or maybe I’d just gotten good at tuning out the canned music, screaming children, and complaining customers. I kept my lanyard with my name tag on it inside my pocket so nobody would ask me to help them, and found Bella loading dishes onto one of the U-boats we used to move merchandise around the store.

  “Damn, I wish this place would make up its mind,” Bella grumbled.

  Her international landmark phase continued. Tonight her hair looked like the Chrysler Building.

  She heaved another stack of plates onto the cart. “I just put all this mess out here two weeks ago, and now I’m moving it someplace else. Got to make room for the new department.”

  I perked up. “Designer clothes?”

  “At Holt’s?” Bella rolled her eyes. “They’re putting the new sewing department here.”

  Maybe Jeanette had covered that in the meeting.

  “We got some old lady gonna give lessons,” Bella said. She stopped and looked up at me. “Hey, what did you do with that sewing machine you won in the raffle?”

  “I’m trying to get rid of it,” I told her. “Want it?”

  Bella went back to moving dishes. “You ought to learn to sew. Make some of those knockoff purses you’re selling.”

  “Guatemalan housewives make them for about five cents an hour,” I told her. “I can’t beat that price.”

  She paused and pursed her lips. “Maybe I’ll buy that machine from you. I’ll make my own signature brand of headbands and scarves when I get out of beauty school. Sell them to those stupid movie stars for a hundred bucks each.”

  “My friend Marcie listed it on eBay for me. If nobody bids on it, it’s yours,” I said. “Listen, I wanted to ask you about the luncheon the other day. Did you see anybody fighting?”

  Debbie had told me that she’d overheard an argument between two women. I figured it was the pageant mom trying to steamroll Claudia into letting her daughter do more. Bella would’ve had a front-row seat for whatever went down.

  “You mean an Ike-and-Tina kind of thing?” Bella asked, moving dishes again.

  “More a Rosie-and-just-about-everybody kind of thing,” I said. “An older woman? The mom of one of the models arguing with the pageant coach that died?”

  “Didn’t see anything like that,” Bella told me. “But I did catch one of the girls bitching her out.”

  Teenage models complained, whined, and pouted about nearly everything, and their coach usually took the brunt of it, so what Bella had seen didn’t really surprise me—except that she’d seen only one of the models doing it.

  “Did you hear they found who that Missing Server was?” Bella asked. “It was all over the TV today. Had her name and picture splashed across the Internet. Still can’t find her, though. Everybody’s still looking for her.”

  I got that queasy feeling in my stomach, like when you ask for a Fendi purse for your birthday, but you’re afraid to open the package because you’re not sure if you really got it.

  Detective Shuman had already told me that Jamie Kirkwood had been ID’d as the missing server. I hadn’t actually looked forward to him finding her since Jamie might tell them about my involvement that day, and that I’d kept it from the police—which anyone in my position would have done.

  “I bet she’ll get a book deal,” Bella said. “Or one of those crazy-ass TV producers will want to do her life story.”

  But Jamie didn’t seem like the kind of girl who’d be anxious to spill her guts about everything that went down that day. She wouldn’t want to get into trouble with Marilyn because she needed that catering job, and I was guessing Jamie wouldn’t want to deepen her involvement with the police.

  “Or, at least, the cover of People,” Bella said.

  Or Jamie might want to lay the whole thing on me, just to get free of the cops.

  Crap.

  Chapter 12

  “We’re resolving this issue with Ty right now,” Marcie declared as she stepped through my front door. She pulled a stack papers from her tote—a fantastic Tory Burch—and announced, “A relationship quiz.”

  Oh my God. Of course. A relationship quiz. The perfect way to figure out what was going on with Ty and me. Why hadn’t I thought of that before?

  “I’ll get beer,” I said, and headed for my kitchen.

  “And lots of chocolate,” Marcie called.

  Chocolate was a given. No personal dilemma could possibly get resolved without it.

  We sat at opposite ends of my couch, beer in hand, two full bags of Snickers bars at the ready. When Marcie had called after I’d left Holt’s tonight and said she needed to drop by, I’d figured it was something to do with our next purse party. This was tons better.

  Marcie waved an ink pen in my directions and consulted the papers she’d brought. “This quiz
is titled ‘Is He Mr. Now Or Mr. Never?’”

  I already knew the answer, of course. Ty was my Mr. Now. But things had been weird between us, so reaffirming that we were perfect for each other through the scientific process of a relationship quiz would ease my mind.

  “Okay, first question in the Major Issues section,” Marcie said. “Does he share the same political views as you?”

  “We never really talked about politics,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean we wouldn’t agree.”

  “Of course not,” Marcie said, and made a note on the paper. “Okay, next question. Do the two of you agree on a religion?”

  “Well, we never actually discussed religion,” I admitted.

  Marcie looked up from the quiz. “What religion is Ty?”

  “I don’t know—but I’m sure I’ll love it when I find out.”

  “And he’ll love yours,” Marcie said, making another mark on the paper. “How about other issues like global warming, abortion, and stem cell research?”

  I got a yucky feeling in my stomach. “I don’t think ‘major issues’ is a big factor in our relationship. Maybe we should move on.”

  “Good idea,” Marcie said. She flipped the page. “Do the two of you like the same sports teams?”

  “I’m not sure which sports team Ty likes,” I said.

  “Okay, how about his favorite food?”

  “I don’t know what it is.”

  “Favorite vacation spot?”

  “I don’t think that ever came up.”

  “His favorite color?”

  “He looks great in blue,” I said.

  “Close enough,” Marcie declared, and marked the page. “Now, name three romantic things he’s done for you in the past week.”

  Okay, I could do this. I had to do this. Our relationship was hanging in the balance. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for a romantic memory to pop up.

  It didn’t.

  “Uh, I can’t really think of anything romantic,” I said, then added, “Right now, that is.”

  “How about something thoughtful?” Marcie asked.

  I shook my head. “Nothing’s coming to mind.”

  “Something helpful?” she asked.

  “Ty’s really busy,” I said.

  “Oh, okay. Sure,” Marcie said, then turned the page. “Now, name five things the two of you have in common.”

  “Five?” I gulped down a swallow of beer. “Wow. Five, huh? That’s a lot.”

  “Okay, then name four.”

  “Actually, we haven’t really known each other all that long and—”

  “Three?”

  “Well…”

  “One?” Marcie asked, her pen poised over the quiz. “Come on, Haley, you can think of one, can’t you?”

  “Of course I can,” I declared. “But, well…”

  “We’ll come back to that one,” Marcie said, and jotted a note on the paper. “Now, what’s the most important characteristic you’re looking for in a man?”

  “That’s easy,” I said, relieved. “He should be fun at a party.”

  Marcie looked up at me. “That’s not one of the options on the quiz.”

  “It’s not?” I asked. Okay, that was weird. “Then how about that he likes to dance?”

  Marcie shook her head.

  “He’s strong enough to pick me up if I pass out at a club?” I tried.

  Marcie looked at the quiz and frowned. “That’s not on here, either.”

  “Jeez, what kind of quiz is this?” I demanded. “Where did you find it?”

  “On the Internet.”

  “Not from Cosmo?” I heaved a sign of relief. “No wonder I’m not getting any of the answers right. What kind of credibility can a relationship quiz have if it wasn’t published in Cosmo?”

  “Yeah, I guess this was a bad idea,” Marcie agreed, and slipped the papers back into her tote.

  I studied the bag for a minute, then asked, “So what’s the result?”

  “Are you sure you want to know?” Marcie asked.

  Okay, I knew things didn’t look so good for Ty and me right now, but sometimes those quizzes have a way of pointing out the positives, rather than the negatives in a relationship. And it looked as if Ty and I needed all the positives we could get.

  Marcie pulled out the papers again and did a quick calculation. She frowned again.

  “Ty’s not your Mr. Never,” she said.

  My spirits lifted. “See? I knew we were meant to be together.”

  Her frown deepened. “He’s not your Mr. Now, either. According to your quiz score, you might make out with him at a bar, but you wouldn’t date him.”

  I shoved a Snickers bar in my mouth.

  “I’d better go,” Marcie said, and got up from the couch. She gestured to the sewing machine still sitting in my living room. “I checked on eBay before I came over. No bids yet.”

  “Bella said she might want it,” I said. “She’s got some wild notion about designing a line of headbands and scarves.”

  “Sounds like a good idea,” Marcie said.

  Maybe it was. I was kind of bummed right now. Nothing sounded good to me.

  “You should make your own line of bags,” Marcie said, then smiled and nodded. “You could be the next Judith Leiber.”

  That kind of cheered me up. It would be great to be a Judith Leiber type of designer. Everyone would be jealous of me. I probably wouldn’t even need a college degree for it.

  Then my spirits plummeted again.

  “Crap,” I said. “I have homework tonight.”

  “Another English paper?” Marcie asked.

  “Health,” I told her. “We’re studying circulation or corneas—I don’t know, something that starts with a c.”

  I hated that class. As soon as it was over I was going to go get drunk so I could burn out some brain cells and hopefully forget everything I’d learned.

  Marcie opened the door but lingered for a minute, the way a best friend would.

  “I know things are tough for you and Ty right now,” she said, “but they’ll get better. I have a good feeling about the two of you.”

  That boosted my spirits a bit. Marcie was almost always right about these things.

  She left and I slumped onto my sofa cradling the last of my beer in one hand, a bag of Snickers bars in the other.

  Okay, so things didn’t look so good for Ty and me, according to Marcie’s relationship quiz. But no quiz could take into account how hard Ty worked, how many hours he put in every day, all the responsibility he carried on his shoulders, all the people who depended on him. He’d been spread thin for months, running Holt’s and trying to get Wallace Inc. open. He really had very little time to spend with anyone—which proved that it wasn’t me.

  I needed retail therapy in a major way. Nothing less than that Judith Leiber evening bag would pull me through right now. Somehow I had to get my hands on it.

  I pulled up in front of Evelyn’s house the next morning and killed the engine. The neighborhood was quiet. A few newspapers still lay in driveways, and one health-conscious old guy jogged in a sweat-stained T-shirt.

  A few days ago I’d phoned Evelyn with the info Bradley Olsen at the GSB & T had given me about her supposedly missing, maybe-murdered neighbor Cecil, and assured her everything was fine. She’d seemed okay with it.

  Then, this morning—way too early—Evelyn had called all twisted up about Cecil again. She’d begged me to come over. It didn’t really suit me, but I’d dragged myself out of bed, pulled on sweats, put my hair in a ponytail, and driven over. I pretty much looked like crap.

  But I couldn’t refuse Evelyn, especially since she was probably lonely, and more than likely this was just an excuse to get me over here. Besides, I could hit her up again for the money to buy my Judith Leiber evening bag.

  A Honda Pilot was parked in the driveway, which was a surprise. Evelyn seldom had company since “the incident” last fall. Two people at her house at once? Maybe Evelyn was ready to pa
rty.

  I saw the blinds at the living room window move a fraction of an inch as I headed up the walk. Still, I rang the bell, and called out to identify myself. Locks turned, the security system peeped, and finally, the door opened.

  “Haley, thank you so much for coming,” Evelyn said, repeating her ritual of securing the door. “I know it’s early and you’re very busy, but, well, I just had to do something and I didn’t know who else—”

  “It’s fine, Evelyn,” I told her. I just couldn’t stop trying to make things better for Evelyn.

  She looked neat and tidy, dressed in jeans that she’d ironed, a pink T-shirt, and a white cardigan sweater.

  “Please, come in. I want you to meet someone,” Evelyn said, and led the way into the living room.

  Christine, whose last name I missed, was the someone Evelyn wanted me to meet. I figured her for about thirty, blond hair styled in a crooked ponytail, no makeup. She looked worse than I did but had a better excuse—the infant baby cradled in her arms.

  “This is Annie,” Christine whispered, pulling back the pink blanket.

  Women are weird when it comes to their babies. They want to show them off, but don’t really like people getting too close or actually touching them.

  “Oh, wow,” I said. “She’s a real—”

  “Shh,” Christine hissed, and drew the baby away as if I’d just exhaled anthrax. “Don’t wake her.”

  “Sorry,” I whispered.

  “Christine is Cecil’s daughter,” Evelyn explained in a low voice.

  Okay, so now I knew why I was here. Evelyn and Christine intended to tag-team me about Cecil and the new girlfriend.

  Evelyn knew me well. On the table in front of the sofa sat a tray of cinnamon buns. They were bad for me, of course, but Evelyn had gone to so much trouble, how could I refuse?

  Evelyn headed to the kitchen for coffee—I thought that’s what she said, she’d spoken so quietly I wasn’t sure—and I sat in the chair near Christine. She was so fascinated with her sleeping baby I wasn’t sure she remembered I was in the room, so I headed into the kitchen after Evelyn.