Purses and Poison

by Dorothy Howell

  “I got off work ten minutes ago, Ty! Ten minutes,” I yelled. “You should know that since you own the place!”

  “Sorry,” he said again.

  But I wasn’t ready to be soothed or placated, and I sure wasn’t ready to forgive. I was angry about—well, about everything, and thinking I was going to be arrested or murdered in the dark, empty parking lot of Holt’s, of all places, had fried my last nerve.

  “Really, I’m sorry,” Ty said once more. Then he smiled down at me, that cute smile of his that I couldn’t resist—usually.

  “You could have called,” I told him.

  He heaved a sigh and announced, “I finally have everything handled for the opening of Wallace Incorporated. I need to talk to you. Let’s go out for dinner.”

  “Now?” I asked.

  “Sure.” He nodded toward his car.

  Dinner? With Ty? I’d wanted just that for ages. But right now, at this very moment, it didn’t sound all that great.

  I had on my Holt’s work clothes, so I looked like crap, and I had that homework paper due by midnight. It irked me that Ty had blown in here, announced that he wanted to go to dinner—because it suited his schedule—and he expected me to hop in his car, no-notice.

  “I had something I wanted to talk to you about,” Ty said. “Something special.”

  Now my heart rate really cranked up, but for a whole different reason.

  Oh my God. He was going to invite me to the charity gala at the Biltmore. Our first big night together.

  The evening flashed before my eyes.

  We’ll walk in. I’ll be wearing a fabulous gown, Ty in a stunning tuxedo. All eyes will turn to us. Mouths will gape open. People will point. A murmur will go through the crowd. We’ll be the stars of the evening. Then afterward, Ty will take me to the exquisite suite he’s rented for us at the hotel where we’ll—finally—have our first night together.

  “I’m leaving for Europe,” Ty said. “I’ll be there a few weeks and I—”

  My best-ever daydream burst.

  “You’re what?” I demanded.

  “I’m leaving for Europe,” Ty repeated. “I’ll be—”

  “When?”

  Ty paused, looking troubled. Obviously, this wasn’t the way he’d pictured this conversation going.

  “Soon,” he said. “I’ll be there for several weeks and—”

  “What about the charity gala at the Biltmore?” I all but screamed.

  He froze. I could see the wheels turning in his mind as he wondered just what the hell I was talking about.

  He didn’t figure it out because he said, with a good measure of caution, “What about it?”

  “We’re supposed to go! You and me! Our big debut!”

  Ty waved his hands—as if that could somehow calm me—and said, “No, Haley, you don’t understand. I want you to go to Europe with me.”

  I stared at him, trying to process his words, too stunned to speak for a second or two.

  “What’s wrong?” Ty stared hard at me, trying to glean something from my expression. “You don’t have a passport?”

  “Of course I have a passport,” I snapped.

  Most parents took their kids to Disneyland. We went to Paris Fashion Week.

  “You’re telling me this now? Now?” I said. “You couldn’t have given me some notice?”

  “I wanted to surprise you.”

  Oh. Okay, now I felt like an idiot. And that made me mad again.

  “Do you think I have absolutely no life at all? That I’m just standing around, waiting for you to surprise me with something?” I demanded. “I have plans, commitments. I have responsibilities. Things I have to do.”

  He shrugged. “Cancel them.”

  His words lodged in my brain. I couldn’t seem to understand them.

  “Haley, this is Europe I’m talking about,” Ty went on. “I’ve got business, but you can have your days to shop, sightsee, whatever. Then in the evenings we can—”

  “You expect me to cancel my plans? Just like that?” I shouted. “I’ve got school, Ty. My education.”

  “You can turn in your assignments over e-mail,” he said.

  “I have other plans. Helping with my mom’s business. Purse parties scheduled with Marcie. Tons of things,” I said. And the more I thought about it, the madder I got. “I can’t believe you’d think I’d take off to Europe with you. Our relationship won’t even stand up to an Internet dating quiz.”

  Ty stared at me. I don’t think he knew what I was talking about.

  “We’ve hardly had a real date,” I said. “You’re always late, or you’re on the phone, or you don’t show up at all.”

  Now Ty looked as if he understood, but didn’t know why I thought that was a problem. And then it hit me: I was being an idiot over Ty.

  Oh my God. I really was being an idiot over him. Just like all the other girls I knew. The ones who put up with a load of BS when they deserved better. The girls who kept hanging on when the guy was clearly not interested. The girls I always made fun of.

  Not a great feeling.

  “I’m not going to Europe with you, Ty,” I said. “Forget it.”

  I turned to get back into my car, but Ty caught the door, stopping me.

  “Look, Haley, you know I’ve been busy with Wallace Incorporated, and—”

  “Everybody’s busy, Ty,” I said. “If I mattered to you, Wallace Incorporated would matter a little less.”

  He looked really confused. “But you do matter, Haley.”

  “We’ve never had an uninterrupted date,” I said.

  “Okay, no problem. Next date, I’ll leave my cell phone at home,” Ty promised.

  “We haven’t even had sex yet.”

  “We can fix that—right now, if you want.”

  Okay, that was kind of tempting.

  Then I came to my senses. I didn’t want sex from Ty, not just sex, anyway. I wanted a relationship.

  “Forget it,” I said to Ty, and turned back to my car.

  He jumped in front of me and sighed heavily. “I realize that everything that goes wrong between us will be my fault, but could you at least tell me what’s really happening here?”

  I huffed, letting him know that I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. But I guessed I owed him that much.

  “You’re too busy to spend time with me, and I’m tired of being in second place,” I said. “I’d really looked forward to us going to the charity gala, but obviously it means nothing to you since you’re going to Europe instead.”

  “I’ll come back,” Ty said, as if the solution were obvious. “I’ll come back and we’ll go to the gala together.”

  My spirits lifted for a second, then plummeted again. “You can’t make it to dinner with me on time when you’re right here in town. You’re not going to make it back from Europe.”

  “I will,” he promised. “I’ll be there. Count on it.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t want to be disappointed again.”

  “You won’t be. I swear,” Ty told me.

  I wanted to believe him, but I wasn’t going to get my hopes up again.

  He grinned. “We could still have sex now, if you want.”

  I grinned, too. I couldn’t help it.

  “I’m going home,” I said, and got into my car. “I have a paper to write.”

  Ty stood outside my open car door looking down at me. “You’re going to see a different side of me from now on.”

  I liked the sound of it, but wouldn’t let myself believe it.

  “Yeah, okay. Whatever,” I said.

  “See you at the Biltmore.”

  Ty pushed my door closed and I drove away.

  A different side of Ty? I wondered what that would be.

  Chapter 14

  There’s a fine line between stalking and just hanging around to see what’s up. I hoped that nobody who saw me sitting on the front steps of the Palms Apartments, watching the apartment building across the street, knew that su
btle difference.

  I’d rolled out of bed early this morning—way early—and headed to Westwood Village, a really cool area near the UCLA campus. Old movie theaters showed indie and classic films, there were tons of bookstores, art galleries, shops, and great restaurants.

  Nearby were lots of apartment buildings. It was a really nice area, so rent was high; students had to share.

  The building directly across Hilgard Avenue from where I sat was where Jamie Kirkwood, the missing-now-found server lived, according to the address I’d copied out of Marilyn Carmichael’s personnel records.

  I’d knocked on Jamie’s apartment door on the second floor when I got there, but no one had answered. I figured she’d refused to open up, fearing it was the press or police, or maybe she’d sacked out in a neighbor’s apartment until things died down. Either way, I hoped I could catch her on her way to class, or breakfast, or work, or something this morning. Granted, it wasn’t much of a plan, but it was all I had going at this early hour.

  For my covert op I’d dressed in jeans, Skechers, and a sweatshirt and carried my backpack—standard college student attire. I thought I blended in pretty well. My health book lay open on my lap. I could have read my next assignment, but saw no need to carry this undercover thing too far.

  I pulled my lone notebook from my backpack and dug around until I found the one pen I kept with me—no sense in weighing myself down with school supplies—and wrote the word “suspects” at the top of a fresh page. I needed to see where I was on my investigation; plus, I wanted to look like I was studying—without actually studying, of course.

  Voices drifted from across the street. I looked up. Three girls came out of the apartment building. Jamie wasn’t with them.

  I turned back to my notebook, ready to list my suspects, but my mind drifted back to last night in the Holt’s parking lot with Ty, and the stunning revelation that had hit me out of the blue: I’d been making excuses for Ty’s behavior, all along.

  Bad enough that I didn’t know where I stood with him, but could he really have been trying to get back together with Claudia before she died? And his trip to Europe. Was it just coincidence that Claudia was traveling there also?

  Yeah, I’d been pretending everything was okay when it wasn’t. Letting him treat me badly and not speaking up. And for what? I wasn’t even getting any good sex out of him.

  A black SUV pulled up to the curb in front of the apartment building across the street and honked the horn. A couple of seconds later, two girls came out. I craned my neck for a better look at them, and saw that neither was Jamie. They climbed into the SUV and drove away.

  I looked down at my suspect list but still couldn’t write anything. My brain was still stuck on Ty. He’d promised he would return from Europe in time to take me to the charity gala, and he’d sounded sincere, but I didn’t see it happening. I’d told him that. I didn’t want him thinking I would hang around waiting for his return, so at least I had my dignity.

  But my dignity wouldn’t whirl me around the dance floor at the Biltmore charity gala.

  I glanced at my watch. I’d been here awhile—nearly a half hour already—and my butt had gone numb from sitting on the hard steps; I was hungry, and the fountain in the yard beside me was giving me a headache.

  Maybe I wasn’t cut out for undercover work.

  But I wasn’t ready to give up on finding Jamie. I turned back to my notebook.

  I had only one suspect I could identify by name: Debbie. Sandy had said she’d seen her arguing with Claudia the day of the luncheon. Motive? I had no clue.

  Next I listed the pageant mom who was, according to Rebecca, upset with Claudia. Her motive was pretty clear. She wanted her daughter to do more and Claudia disagreed.

  Bella had mentioned that one of the teen models had gotten into it with Claudia, so I wrote that down, too.

  My next unnamed suspect was whoever Debbie had overheard arguing at the luncheon when she’d dropped off the fruit bouquets. Maybe it was Claudia, or maybe not. Debbie wasn’t sure.

  I paused and looked at my list. Not much to go on. So I added the one nameless suspect who gave me the creeps—Claudia’s stalker.

  To discover his identity, I’d have to delve further into Claudia’s life, and I had a pretty good idea of how I’d do that. And it wouldn’t—thank God—include sitting in front of an apartment building.

  “What are you doing here?” a voice asked.

  My head snapped up. Jamie Kirkwood stood in front of me.

  When had she come out of her apartment building? Crossed the street? Walked up to me?

  I’m really bad at this undercover stuff.

  “Hey, Jamie, are you okay? I’ve been worried about you,” I said. Luckily, I’d thought my approach through earlier, so the words popped out even though she’d caught me off guard.

  Jamie looked better than when I’d seen her at the luncheon. Not sick, anyway. She had on jeans and a sweatshirt—standard college wear. They looked worn and ill fitting, but not in a cool way.

  “How did you find me?” she asked, looking worried.

  “I asked around,” I said, then hurried on. “Are you feeling better? You looked really sick the other day.”

  “Yeah, I’m okay now. It was nothing,” she said.

  “Did the police talk to you?” I asked, then added, “They’re talking to everybody.”

  Jamie didn’t answer right away, like maybe she wasn’t sure if she trusted me, or wanted to discuss it. But I guess she decided we had a connection, or something.

  “Yeah, they came,” Jamie said, and nodded toward her apartment building. “Nearly got me tossed out on the street. My roommates let me live there but they don’t want any trouble. I don’t want any trouble, either. I’ve got a full ride and I can’t mess it up.”

  “So what did you tell the cops?” I asked.

  “I told them I don’t know anything about Claudia Gray dying. And I don’t.”

  “Did you tell them that I subbed for you?” I asked.

  She looked concerned now, like not mentioning what we’d done at the luncheon might have just blown up in her face.

  “All I said was that I hadn’t felt well so I left early,” she told me.

  Jamie spoke the words as if she’d practiced them, which, I guess, she had. I was relieved to hear it, but for selfish reasons.

  “What did you tell them?” she asked.

  “Nothing. Just that I was there but didn’t see anything,” I said.

  Jamie looked relieved that we had our stories straight.

  “So, did you see anything weird going on at the luncheon?” I asked.

  “Everything about it was weird,” Jamie declared. She glanced away and shook her head. “Those teenage girls, those models, they’ve got everything—and they don’t appreciate it. They just expect more.”

  “You’ve seen those girls before?” I asked. It surprised me a bit. Jamie sure didn’t look like she traveled the pageant circuit.

  “A couple of times when I served for Marilyn,” Jamie said, and uttered a bitter laugh. “Luncheons at the Gray family’s house in Brentwood. They were all so stuck-up. Like they thought they were so much better than me.”

  Actually, those girls probably did think they were better than Jamie. She had her hair in a ponytail, but you could see that it hadn’t been cut professionally in a while. Today, like at the luncheon, she wore inexpensive makeup, the kind you get off the clearance rack in the drugstore. Jamie looked like what she was—a struggling scholarship student.

  “So why didn’t you come forward when the cops first started looking for you?” I asked.

  “Because I don’t know anything about Claudia Gray dying,” she said.

  “It must have weirded you out big time to see your face all over TV and the Internet,” I said. “Probably freaked out your parents, too.”

  “No family,” Jamie said, and looked away.

  I had a better picture of Jamie now. Probably a foster kid from some sm
all town in the middle of nowhere, blessed with a good brain that got her a full scholarship but little else, at the moment. Classes, studying, homework, hunting down odd jobs, feeding herself, and keeping a roof over her head occupied her every waking moment. No wonder she didn’t want to get mixed up in Claudia’s murder investigation.

  Jamie hitched her backpack higher on her shoulder. “I’ve got to get to class.”

  I shoved my book, notebook, and pen into my backpack and stood.

  “Listen, take my cell phone number,” I said. “Maybe we can hang out sometime.”

  Jamie didn’t jump at the chance, but she finally pulled out her phone and punched in my name and number. I took her number too. I already had it from Marilyn’s personnel roster, but I didn’t want her to know that.

  “Hang in there,” I said as I turned to walk away.

  I’d gone a few feet when Jamie called my name.

  “Thanks for the other day at the luncheon.” A hint of a smile touched her lips, but not without some effort. “You didn’t have to do that. So, thanks.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  I stood there for a few minutes as she walked away, glad I wasn’t her, then guilty that I’d had the thought.

  Despite what you see in the movies, it’s okay to look like crap when shopping on Rodeo Drive. All sorts of people go there, not just the beautiful ones dripping in jewels and fabulous clothes.

  You might see what appears to be a homeless woman tottering out of a store, only to find a chauffeur-driven Bentley waiting for her at the curb. A girl in a ratty T-shirt and UGG boots might be an actress dodging the paparazzi.

  The cool part about the Rodeo Drive shops is that their highly trained sales staff can somehow discern your bank balance when you walk through their doors, and treat you accordingly. If you’re a regular customer, they remember you and your bank balance. Or, in my case, they know your mom.

  I’d put off shopping with Mom for our gowns to wear to the charity gala for so long that she’d finally gone without me. But I wasn’t completely off the hook. She’d picked out a few that she knew I’d just love and had Lillianna—I’m pretty sure everybody who worked there made up their own names—her personal shopper at Chez March, put them aside.