“Then give me a better story,” he said. His expression hardened, and he moved a little closer. “Give me something on Claudia Gray’s murder.”
I gasped and stared up at him, too stunned to speak.
“I’ve got a four o’clock deadline tomorrow,” Ben said. “If I don’t hear from you before then, I’ll know which story to run.”
Oh, crap.
Chapter 21
I stood outside the store watching as Ben drove away, frozen in horror, too numb to move.
A porn site wanted me? How could that be? None of it made sense.
Yeah, okay, I could understand a pet rescue site wanting me, after all the publicity over the supposed cats in the Holt’s stockroom. But a porn site?
Jack Bishop and his question about me modeling popped into my head. Then Troy and the other guys from menswear who’d been staring at me for days came to mind, and that brought recollections of the Pike Warner attorney the day of Claudia’s death, the men sitting across from Jack and me at lunch, the painting contractors outside Edible Elegance.
What was going on?
I pulled my phone from my pocket and called Jack as I paced up and down the side of the Holt’s building, so as not to be spotted by anyone. He answered on the first ring.
“Am I in a porn magazine, or something?” I blurted out.
“Best centerfold I’ve seen in a while,” Jack said.
“It’s not me!” I exclaimed.
He chuckled. “Sure looks like you.”
“Well, it isn’t,” I told him.
“You look a lot like this Randi Rushmore,” Jack said.
Suddenly, “Mount” Rushmore took on a whole new meaning.
“At least tell me she’s a top-rated porn star,” I said.
“One of the best,” Jack said.
“I don’t do porn—and I never will.”
Although, now that I thought about it, porn stars probably made a lot of money and definitely didn’t need a college degree.
“Do you have a birthmark?” Jack asked. “Randi Rushmore has a rather distinctive birthmark in a…memorable spot.”
“No,” I said, and gasped in relief. “Then that proves it isn’t me.”
“Doesn’t prove anything, unless it’s verified,” Jack pointed out. “So, just say the word and I’ll confirm your claim, then go online, and put the word out that it’s not you.”
Jack’s method of “confirming” my claim flashed through my mind—what a hot evening that would be—but not exactly the circumstances I wanted.
“I’ll let you know,” I told him, and hung up.
It was a Fossil evening. Definitely a Fossil evening.
After enduring another shift in the Holt’s sewing department and surviving Marlene’s instructions to the students who’d signed up for her class on basic garment construction, I’d left the store, ready for this day to end. But Doug had called on my drive home and asked if I’d like to have a late dinner with him. Since nobody else was asking me out these days, I said yes.
I pulled on jeans and a red sweater, then transferred my essentials—about five pounds’ worth—into my Fossill tote, and was ready to leave when my doorbell rang. I told Doug not to come to my place, I’d meet him at the restaurant. I didn’t want him here in case there was another note waiting for me. Doug was the closest thing to a normal relationship I’d had in a while, which wasn’t saying much given the circumstances of my life lately, but still, I didn’t want to scare him off.
I looked through the peephole in the front door and saw Detective Shuman waiting outside.
This couldn’t be good.
For a minute, I was tempted to stand still, hold my breath, and pretend I wasn’t home. But that would only postpone whatever Shuman had come here to talk about, and since I wasn’t big on suspense, I opened the door.
He was alone, no sign of Detective Madison, and I realized that it was after ten at night, way past Shuman’s normal duty hours. Maybe this was a social call.
“How’s it going?” I asked, closing the door behind him. “Want something to drink?”
“No, thanks,” Shuman said.
I invited him to sit down, but he remained on his feet. He frowned his cop-frown. Not a good sign.
When will I learn not to invite a homicide detective into my home?
“Have you found out anything about Cecil Hartley’s disappearance?” I asked, hoping to hold off the inevitable.
Shuman shook his head. “I’m here about the Claudia Gray investigation.”
“I haven’t heard from Debbie,” I said, figuring it better if I just put that out there right away.
Shuman looked at me as if he was tired, as if he expected something more but didn’t want to have to go to the trouble of asking for it.
“There was some sort of dispute between Claudia’s mom and Debbie over the price of the fruit bouquets she ordered,” I said. “I don’t know, maybe the two of them got into it at the Holt’s luncheon.”
“Everything goes back to Edible Elegance—your mom’s company,” Shuman said. He made it sound as if Mom and my arrests were imminent, which ticked me off a little.
“Not everything,” I insisted. “What about Claudia’s stalker?”
Jeez, I really hoped Ty wasn’t Claudia’s stalker and I hadn’t just thrown him in front of the bus.
“What about it?” Shuman asked, looking harder at me.
I flung both arms out, indicating it should be obvious.
“She had a stalker. Did you find out who he is? Why he was stalking her?” I asked.
Shuman uttered a bitter laugh and turned away. “Damn, Haley, is there a lie that you won’t tell?”
Stunned, I just looked at him for a second, then said, “I’m not making this up. Rebecca told me all about it.”
“Is that so?” Shuman demanded. “Then how come she didn’t tell us about this supposed stalker?”
“She didn’t tell you?” I asked, surprised.
“She had nothing to tell us,” Shuman said, sounding a little angry. “And now, suddenly, you come up with this wild idea of a stalker?”
“I’m just repeating what Rebecca told me,” I said, feeling a little angry myself. “Maybe she figured someone else in the family had already told you—”
“Jamie Kirkwood’s dead.”
Breath went out of me. My knees felt a little weak. I sank onto the sofa.
Shuman dropped next to me, his anger gone, replaced by despair. Not something you often saw in a homicide detective.
“What…what happened?” I managed to ask.
He pushed both hands through his hair, then took another moment before he answered.
“Hit-and-run,” he said quietly. “Earlier today…in front of her apartment building.”
A weight seemed to grow inside my chest, holding me down, keeping me from breathing easily. I’d only talked to Jamie twice, but she’d gotten to me, somehow. Her life was hard, yet she kept pushing forward. If anyone deserved a break, it was Jamie, but now…
Shuman loosened his necktie and opened the top button of his shirt. “This could be connected to Claudia’s murder.”
That got my attention.
“Jamie was being threatened,” Shuman said. “According to her roommate she’d received numerous threats.”
“And she didn’t tell you?” I asked, surprised.
Then I realized I shouldn’t have been surprised at all. Jamie had no parents, no family, and was so focused on her classes she probably had no close friends. She’d been handling her problems by herself for a long time. Turning to someone else for help wasn’t something she’d think to do.
“Witnesses at the scene reported that when Jamie stepped into the street, a car pulled out from the curb and hit her,” Shuman said. “Didn’t stop. Just kept going.”
“Someone had been waiting, watching for her,” I murmured, mostly to myself.
“I think Jamie saw something at the Holt’s luncheon. I think she saw the pers
on who put the poison on Claudia’s fruit bouquet,” Shuman said.
Suspects ran through my head: the model seen arguing with Claudia, the pageant mom, Debbie, the stalker, Ty’s grandmother Ada.
Then I realized something else: Jamie had been sick that day. Had she maybe sneaked a bite of one of the fruit bouquets, the one meant for Claudia? Had she, as Shuman suspected, seen who’d administered the poison? And had that person found her, run her down to silence her?
“We’re following some leads,” Shuman said.
“Anything promising?”
He nodded. “Maybe you can explain why the last phone call Jamie received was from you.”
“Me?” The word came out kind of squeaky, so I know I sounded guilty. But I couldn’t help it. My heart rate picked up and my stomach felt queasy. I swallowed hard to try and calm myself—and sound innocent.
“I ran into Jamie outside her apartment—”
“So you know where she lived?” Shuman asked, in his best tough-cop voice.
“Well, yeah,” I said, and rushed on before he could ask how I learned her address. “We exchanged phone numbers—just to be friendly—and so I called her to see if she wanted to hang out, or something.”
Yeah, okay, I know most of that was semitruthful, but how would it sound if I told Shuman I’d deliberately sought Jamie out, then called her just to try and get more info?
“Where were you today between five and six o’clock?” he asked.
In television crime dramas, this is the point where the suspect refuses to answer and asks for an attorney. But there was no reason for me to do that—I was innocent; plus, I had an airtight alibi.
“At work,” I told him.
“Did somebody see you there?”
“Sure,” I said, then realized that maybe my alibi wasn’t so airtight after all.
During those hours I hadn’t been in my assigned area. I’d been hiding out in the stockroom phoning the television station and newspaper; then I’d gone outside and stayed out of sight along the side of the Holt’s building talking to Ben Oliver, then Jack Bishop.
I was absolutely, positively never inviting Detective Shuman into my home again.
Even though I had no evidence or alibi, I told him, “I had nothing to do with Jamie’s death. You have to believe me.”
“I wish I could, Haley,” Shuman said, and it sounded as if he meant it. “But I can’t believe anything you tell me anymore.”
He left without another word and I just stood there in my living room, not feeling so great.
I didn’t like that Shuman wouldn’t believe me. I mean, jeez, we’d gone shopping together just a couple of months ago and bonded over a really great Burberry scarf for his girlfriend. And now he thought—actually believed—that I was involved with not one, but two murders?
Then another thought came to me, one that didn’t make me feel any better: if I hadn’t lied to Shuman and Madison about substituting for Jamie at the luncheon—even though, technically, it was an omission, not an actual lie—I wouldn’t be in this spot right now.
Definitely not a great feeling.
I dropped onto the sofa, thinking maybe I would—
Oh my God. Doug.
I shot straight up, grabbed my Fossill tote, and ran out the door to the parking lot, only to find Doug walking toward me.
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
He was a nice guy—boring but nice—and it was really crappy of me to keep him waiting. I wished I could tell him the reason, but explaining that I’d been delayed by a homicide detective who’d accused me of yet another murder might send the wrong message.
“I was concerned when you didn’t arrive at the restaurant on time,” Doug said, looking genuinely troubled. “Are you all right? Do you need a few minutes?”
It was nice that he picked up on the fact that I was a little frazzled, and was willing to postpone our date a bit, but I waved away his concern.
“Just hungry,” I said.
“Let’s take my car,” Doug said, and rested his hand on my lower back as he guided me across the parking lot toward his tiny Kia.
“Hey, wait.” I stopped and looked up at him. “How did you know where I lived?”
“I found it on the Internet,” he explained.
My cell phone rang and my heart did a little flip-flop at the thought that it was Ty calling, finally—leave it to him to call at the most inopportune moment—but it wasn’t Ty. It was Jack.
“I just need a quick minute, okay?” I said to Doug.
“Sure,” he said.
I walked a few feet away and answered the phone.
“You owe me,” Jack said. “I’ve decided what I want. And I want it now.”
Oh, crap.
Chapter 22
I looked like a hooker. No, actually, I looked like a porn star, which is exactly what Jack wanted.
Streetlight flashed into the Lexus as he drove through L.A. I wasn’t sure where we were.
I had on a tight, ultrashort, strapless red dress that Jack had picked out for me, a mega push-up bra, thigh-high boots with zippers up the back—they were part of a Halloween costume, I swear—glitter eye shadows, a dozen layers of cherry-red lipstick, and that was about it.
Jack looked good. Tonight he had on charcoal slacks and a sport coat, a black turtleneck, and sunglasses, even though it was after midnight.
“You’re clear on this?” he asked.
“I know what you want,” I told him. “Just get out fast, okay?”
He glanced at me. “I usually take my time, but I’ll make an exception tonight.”
We were headed to a club I never heard of, an exclusive place frequented by celebrities, stars, and high rollers that offered privacy and very personalized services. Jack had gotten a tip that a guy he’d been trying to serve court papers on was there tonight.
“So who are we looking for?” I asked.
“A real dirtbag,” Jack said. “Shawn Dorsey.”
“The date-rape guy from last summer? Gross,” I said. “I thought he was in jail.”
Jack shook his head. “No such luck. Dorsey’s family is loaded. They managed to shut down the media and hired an army of attorneys that got the criminal charges dismissed.”
“Bastards,” I said.
“Civil lawsuits have been filed, but Shawn, being the slimy worm that he is, is good at eluding the process server.”
“So now it’s up to you to get him served,” I said.
“And you.” Jack glanced over. “I owe you for this one.”
“I’ll tell you what I want,” I said, “and when I want it.”
While my life wasn’t exactly on the line tonight, there was a slight possibility of danger. Jack had been clear about that up front. I was the bait, but he’d taken more than the usual precautions to ensure that nothing went sideways.
We pulled up to the curb in front of the Fisher Club, marked only by a small, purple neon sign. A line formed behind velvet ropes, and a couple of hulking men in suits kept watch on the crowd.
Jack left the Lexus and spoke with one of the men. Apparently, a lot of wrangling was required to get into a club like this. He had connections everywhere.
Once I was inside, under the guise that I was porn star Randi Rushmore, word would be passed along that I wanted that sleazeball Shawn Dorsey to join me; then Jack would serve him the court summons, and we’d leave.
That was the plan, anyway.
When Jack opened the car door I got out—carefully, so as not to be mistaken for Britney—and caught my reflection in the glass doors of the club. I hardly recognized myself, so I figured I’d pass for Randi Rushmore—as long as nobody wanted a peek at the infamous birthmark.
Inside the club, the floor throbbed with the beat of the music, and lights flashed over the packed dance floor. Lots of men looked my way—maybe this porn star thing wouldn’t be so bad—as I was shown to the private room Jack had arranged for. A big purple circular sofa sat in the center, surrounded by
thin purple curtains that veiled the view of the rest of the club.
I sat down and crossed my legs—not a full-on Sharon Stone leg cross, but close—and waited. A waitress brought me a drink, which I didn’t touch, and a few minutes later Shawn Dorsey came inside.
What a pig. Plump and soft, he looked like a used car salesman, complete with the pinky ring. No wonder he had to drug women to have sex.
Dorsey leered at me, which made me want to throw up, and approached the sofa. As soon as he sat down, Jack walked in and tossed the bundle of court papers at him.
Oh my God. This was too cool—just like being an undercover cop, or something. Did they need a college degree?
On reflex, Dorsey caught the court documents, then realized what had happened. He turned to me with murder in his eye. He knew he’d been set up.
Okay, so maybe undercover work wasn’t that cool.
I rolled away, but he caught my arm—only for a second. Jack shoved Dorsey, sending him tumbling over the back of the sofa, then grabbed my hand and we headed for the door.
My heart raced, my legs shook. I could hardly keep up with Jack as we made our way through the crowd, then out to the street. The Lexus still sat at the curb. He put me inside, jumped behind the wheel, and peeled out.
“You’re buying me something—and I don’t want some stupid toaster or rug shampooer,” I told him. “I want a handbag—and you’re getting it for me.”
Jack grinned as we turned the corner. “Whatever you want.”
I love the smell of the purse department in the morning.
The display case at Nordstrom was filled with the latest styles from Dooney & Bourke, Coach, Kate Spade, and many of my favorites, and all of them whispered to me as I stood caressing the glass. But I ignored their sirens call—I can be really strong when I need to.
I headed through the mall and spotted Ben Oliver seated in Starbucks. He had on the same khaki pants I’d seen him in yesterday—I recognized the wrinkles—and he looked a little disheveled. Guess he wasn’t a morning person.
Good. I hoped I inconvenienced him big time. Since I had to get up early to deal with his threat to expose me as a porn star, so could he—and on my turf, too.
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