Purses and Poison

by Dorothy Howell

  “Or we can go tomorrow night, as planned,” Doug offered.

  Tomorrow night? I’d made a date with Doug for tomorrow night?

  Then it came back to me. He’d phoned while I was in Chez March this morning.

  Headlights cut through the darkness as a car sped across the parking lot toward us. My heart jumped. Was it Ty again? An actual homicidal maniac? The cops coming to arrest me?

  Then I mentally chastised myself. I had to stop thinking that every time I saw headlights in the darkness it meant something bad was about to happen.

  The car cruised to a stop behind my car, blocking it in. The doors opened and Detectives Madison and Shuman got out.

  So much for thinking positive.

  Madison hitched up his trousers and planted himself in front of me, and with an expression of smug delight said, “Miss Randolph, we’re here to talk to you about the disappearance of Debra Humphrey.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “The woman who manages Edible Elegance,” Madison told me. He swaggered closer. “She’s missing. And according to witnesses, you were the last person to see her.”

  Oh, crap.

  Chapter 16

  Detective Madison stared at me, waiting for me to respond to his latest accusation. But I wasn’t about to say anything—at least, not with Doug Eisner, an open conduit to my dad’s ear—standing next to me.

  I turned to Doug. He looked concerned and a little scared. Not that I blamed him, of course.

  “This really isn’t a good time for me,” I said quietly.

  “Who is this?” Madison demanded, thrusting his chin toward Doug.

  “He’s nobody,” I told him, then felt bad because it came out sort of insulting. “I didn’t mean that you’re nobody. But, really, you should go.”

  Doug’s chest puffed up a little and he squared his shoulders.

  “No, no, I won’t leave you alone here, under these circumstances,” he declared.

  “Really, it’s fine,” I told him. “This sort of thing happens to me a lot.”

  Now Doug looked terrified. “It does?”

  “Maybe you’d rather go downtown and discuss this,” Madison said in a threatening tone.

  “There’s nothing to discuss,” I told him.

  “What were you doing at Edible Elegance?” he asked.

  Shuman stood behind him, looking a little concerned. I wondered if maybe he hadn’t told Madison that my mom owned the business. If so, and he was trying to cover for me, I sure didn’t want to rat him out. It crossed my mind, too, that Madison knew the truth already and was waiting to see if I would admit to it, some sort of test to see if I was being honest with him.

  You’d think Madison would know better by now.

  “Witnesses ID’d you at the scene,” Madison declared. “And right after you left, the Humphrey woman closed the place and took off. Nobody’s seen her since.”

  Doug eased up next to me and said quietly, “Haley, I recommend you speak with an attorney before making a statement.”

  “Do you think you need an attorney?” Madison asked, his tone suggesting that he hoped I did.

  “This is all a misunderstanding,” I said to Doug. “Give me a minute.”

  I walked away, leaving all three men to stare after me. As I knew they would, Madison and Shuman followed.

  “Yes, I stopped by Edible Elegance,” I told the detectives when we were out of earshot of Doug. “And, yes, I spoke with Debbie. So what?”

  “So what?” Madison echoed. He gestured toward Shuman. “We’re investigating a murder, a poisoning. We go to question one of the companies that provided food and what do we find? You’ve already been there, and the woman we want to talk to has disappeared—in a hurry. What are you trying to hide?”

  “Nothing,” I insisted, but it came out sounding a little guilty.

  Madison leaned closer. “You were seen hanging around those fruit bouquets at the luncheon. That makes me think you and this Humphrey woman were in on this murder together. Did you force her to leave town to cover up your crime? Threaten her?”

  “Of course not.”

  “That’s tampering with a witness, with evidence.” Madison gave me a smug smile. “All of which will go quite nicely with a second murder charge.”

  I gasped, but he walked away, hopefully not seeing that my hands had started to shake.

  Madison thought I’d murdered Claudia and Debbie? He didn’t even know if Debbie was dead. Jeez, he was out to get me, all right.

  Shuman hung back, his expression grim. I didn’t know if he was upset with this turn in the investigation, with Madison, or with me.

  “Stop lying,” Shuman said.

  Okay, so it was me he was upset with.

  “We got the complete lab report on Claudia’s death,” he said. “She was poisoned with a lethal cocktail of cleaning and beauty products dumped onto that fruit bouquet. They came from inside the RV the models were using.”

  A flicker of hope flared in me.

  “Maybe it was an accident?” I said. “Maybe somebody spilled something, or splashed something—”

  “Whoever did this wanted Claudia dead. They threw everything they could get their hands on into the mix.” Shuman’s expression hardened. “And until you start telling me the truth, Haley, there’s no way I can protect you.”

  It hadn’t occurred to me that I might need protection. And I wasn’t sure who it would be from: Detective Madison or Claudia’s killer. Plus, Shuman seemed so irritated with me I didn’t know if he’d provide it, even if he could.

  The one thing I did know for sure, as I got out of the shower the next morning, was that Debbie’s disappearance was weird and probably not coincidental.

  Did she know something about the murder she hadn’t mentioned? Was the clue she’d given me about two women arguing at the Holt’s luncheon just a lie to throw suspicion off herself?

  I got a little chill thinking about that because it would mean that Debbie had murdered Claudia—provided she had a motive, of course.

  Something else to add to my list of leads and suspects that I intended to work on today. I’d stayed up late last night and come up with a plan for solving Claudia’s murder. And, as with all great plans, it started with the right look.

  I styled my hair in an efficient yet trendy updo, and went a little conservative on the makeup, then took up my usual position in front of my closet. I needed the perfect thing to wear for today’s fact-finding mission.

  Even though Debbie was missing and presumed—by Detective Madison, anyway—dead, I had to focus on solving Claudia’s murder. Rebecca had given me a good lead, so it was at the top of my list.

  That made it a Marc Jacobs day. Definitely a Marc Jacobs day. I picked a green croc clutch from the shelf, then matched it with a chic Dior suit I hadn’t worn in a while, and left my apartment. Something fluttered to the ground as I opened the door.

  I figured it was a pizza delivery ad or an offer for a discount oil change at the Jiffy Lube; my apartment complex was huge, so those sort of things were always being stuck in the doors. But this was an envelope, the kind greeting cards came in.

  Okay, this was weird. It wasn’t my birthday, or any other special day.

  I looked up and down the walkway in both directions, thinking I might see who’d left it. Nobody was there.

  I tucked my clutch under my arm and checked out the envelope. My name was written on the front. I didn’t recognize the handwriting. Since I’m not big on suspense, I ripped it open and pulled out the card.

  A picture of two cuddly puppies was on the front. Inside, there was no preprinted message, just a line written in the same hand that read “I’ve got my eye on you.”

  I froze for a second, thinking. Then it came to me.

  Oh my God. Ty. It had to be Ty. In the Holt’s parking lot he’d promised me I would see a different side of him and—wow—was this ever a different side!

  The whole scenario flashed in my head. Ty pushing aside
all of his important work, postponing meetings, using all his mental energy to come up with something special to do for me. Then rushing to a store, sorting through dozens of cards, deciding none were good enough for me. Him dreaming up just the right message to write, then sneaking over here to put it in my door before I got up.

  My insides felt all gooey as I got into my car and drove toward the freeway. I fished my cell phone out of my clutch and called him. His voice mail picked up, so I left him a message, thanking him for getting my day off to such a great start.

  Then, for some reason, Doug Eisner popped into my head. After the detectives left last night, Doug had mumbled something about an early morning meeting and taken off. I figured I’d seen the last of him—not that I blamed him, of course.

  I headed for Sherman Oaks via the 405 freeway. Traffic was always a nightmare through this stretch, but especially during the morning and evening rush hour. Still, I managed to weave in and out, and cut off a couple of cars.

  I exited the freeway on Ventura Boulevard and parked in a garage off Sepulveda. This was a fantastic area. Lots of huge, modern office buildings, a great mall with terrific shops, wonderful restaurants and apartments. Just the sort of place I figured Claudia would work.

  I took the elevator up to the third floor where L.A. Affairs was located. Mom had never used this particular event planning company, but she’d been to parties they’d staged. Mom, who once met First Lady Nancy Regan and declared her dull, wasn’t easily impressed, but she raved about L.A. Affairs.

  Claudia had worked there for a while, according to Rebecca, so I figured it was a good place to find some new info on her.

  Things were different on a job. Because of the endless, mind-numbing hours spent there, coworkers seemed more like family—only better. You could tell them most anything and not worry about it being passed on to relatives at the next holiday gathering.

  I hoped Claudia had felt that way about L.A. Affairs.

  The elevator stopped on three and I got out. Double doors at the end of the corridor had L.A. AFFAIRS written on the glass in gold letters. I pushed my way inside and came face-to-face with the receptionist, a woman in her forties with blond hair, wearing a suit that probably fit great seven years and twenty-five pounds ago.

  She popped up from behind her desk and exclaimed, “Are you ready to party?”

  “I’m always ready to party,” I said. It’s an automatic response of mine.

  The receptionist giggled nervously and clasped her hands together.

  “They make me say that,” she confided, then glanced around as if to see if anyone was watching.

  No one was, unless they happened to stick their head out of the cube farm off to the left. From the buzz of conversation in the office, I doubted anyone had time to monitor the receptionist’s greeting.

  “I’m Mindy. I’m new here,” she said quietly, as if that explained something. “My husband left me. Just up and left. Out of the blue. I had no idea.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” I said.

  “But I’m working here now. So, everything is fine. Really. Just fine.” She pulled in a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and forced a smile. “So, are you ready to party?”

  “Actually, I’m here about Claudia,” I said.

  Her shoulders sagged again. “Oh yes. You and several others—”

  The phone rang. It was one of those big console models that appeared to be tied into America’s Missile Defense Network. Red and yellow lights flashed frantically.

  The receptionist stared at it, wringing her hands. “Oh, jimminy, now let me see…”

  She pushed a button, taking us to Def Con 4, I think, and three more lights flashed.

  I could be here all day, at this rate.

  “If I could just speak with someone about—” I began.

  “Here,” she said, and thrust a sheet of paper at me while still staring at the ringing phone.

  “I just need to talk to—”

  “Someone will talk to you,” she said, then pointed down the hallway. Finally, she started pushing buttons. “Are you ready to—hello?—oh yes, are you ready—hello, hello?—are you ready—”

  I walked away.

  Several small offices were off to my left, rooms apparently used by L.A. Affair’s upscale clientele during the event-planning process. They were all well decorated so that the wealthy felt at home, and filled with books and catalogs of party theme ideas.

  I glanced down at the paper the receptionist had given me and saw that it was an employment application.

  Oh my God. She thought I was here to apply for Claudia’s job. Gross. Somebody would have to be totally desperate to take the job of someone who’d been murdered.

  Suddenly, my job at Holt’s didn’t seem so bad.

  Then it occurred to me that this might be my best chance of actually talking to someone about Claudia. I slipped behind the desk in one of the offices and dug a pen from my clutch.

  Of course, total honesty on an employment application wasn’t required. Everyone knew that. It’s expected, really. So for my current position I put “college student”—no need to mention that I was taking only two classes, even though they were both really hard—and indicated that I worked part-time to supplement my scholarships—which I didn’t really have, but oh well, no need getting into this thing too deep. I rounded out my job history with my positions as lifeguard, receptionist, file clerk, and two weeks at a pet store; I didn’t include the whole Pike Warner law firm thing.

  I stood in the doorway of the little office and looked down the hallway until I saw someone headed my way, then jumped out in front of her. I figured her for a few years older than me, blond, wearing a terrific YSL suit.

  “Hi,” I said, thrusting the employment application at her. “I think I’m supposed to see you.”

  It was a total lie, but I didn’t have all day.

  “Mindy,” she muttered, and rolled her eyes toward the receptionist.

  “She said her husband left her.”

  “Six months ago,” she said, then huffed and took the application from me. “The person who does the hiring isn’t here. I’m Theresa. I’ll make sure she gets this.”

  I knew she was trying to blow me off—which is exactly what I would have done—but I couldn’t let that happen.

  “Actually, I was hoping I could talk to someone about Claudia. She was a friend of mine,” I said—again, not a complete lie—“and I feel kind of strange applying for her job.”

  Theresa paused and gave me and my Dior suit a quick once-over. I shifted my Marc Jacobs clutch higher so she could see it and be properly impressed.

  I guess she deemed me worthy of her time because she shrugged and said, “Claudia and I were pretty close. She wasn’t crazy about this job, so I don’t think she’d have cared one way or the other.”

  “Really? I thought she loved it here,” I said. “But I guess she’d been under a lot of pressure lately, with all the problems she was having.”

  “Boyfriend problems,” Theresa said. “Who doesn’t have those?”

  My heart jumped. Was she talking about Ty? Did she know that Ty was trying to get back together with Claudia before she died? Did absolutely everybody in L.A. know that but me?

  I was dying to ask her, but Rebecca’s face popped into my head, and I knew I had to stick to my planned investigation.

  I hate it when I have to do the right thing.

  “I heard that the mom of one of the models she coached was giving her a hard time,” I said.

  Theresa shook her head. “She never mentioned it.”

  “Claudia had a stalker,” I said.

  She gasped. “You’re kidding. That’s awful—just awful.”

  “Do you have any idea who it might have been?” I asked.

  Theresa frowned and I could see by the twin furrows in her carefully made up forehead that she was thinking hard.

  “I have no idea. Claudia never talked about the men in her life. Except for an
old boyfriend, but she only mentioned him once, and—” Theresa gasped and her eyes widened. “Do you think maybe the old boyfriend was stalking her?”

  Theresa kept talking, but a buzzing noise in my head blocked out her words.

  The only old boyfriend of Claudia’s that I knew about, or that anyone had ever mentioned, was Ty. Did that mean Ty was Claudia’s stalker?

  Oh, crap.

  Chapter 17

  I was totally freaked out after talking to Theresa at L.A. Affairs. I couldn’t even call Marcie—that’s how weirded-out I was. To calm myself, I raced to the Judith Leiber store and spent some quality time with the evening bag I wanted. Even that couldn’t rid my mind of the notion that Ty might be Claudia’s stalker.

  But he was my boyfriend. Sort of. I should know enough about him that a crazy idea like that wouldn’t even occur to me. Yet it did. Which was totally his fault, of course.

  Since I was already in the mall, and had on my really sharp Dior suit and carried my awesome green croc Marc Jacobs clutch, I decided to check out a few of the stores. Some really great school supplies might be waiting on the racks for me.

  My cell phone rang as I stood at the entrance of Nordstrom. It was Marcie. I almost didn’t answer—I wasn’t up to telling the whole Ty-might-be-a-stalker story yet—but hearing Marcie’s voice might make me feel better. Best friends can do that.

  “I’ve got a great purse party lined up for us,” she said, when I answered.

  The vision of a huge purse party bloomed in my head, a party bigger than anything Rita and Tiffany had ever done, one that I could rub in Rita’s face until the end of time.

  My day suddenly got better.

  “Yeah? Who’s hosting?” I asked as I strolled through the mall.

  “We’ll sell tons of bags,” Marcie said.

  “Good. Who’s hosting?” I asked again.

  “It’s a terrific location. We’ll get lots of referrals,” she told me.

  I sensed a pattern here. And not just because Marcie was my best friend and I knew her well.

  I didn’t say anything, just kept the phone pressed to my ear, and finally Marcie gave it up.