Tote Bags and Toe Tags

by Dorothy Howell

  Immediately, I called Marcie. She was duly impressed by the flowers and agreed we had to have lunch. No way could we let an unexpected flower delivery pass us by without discussing it in depth to determine a hidden meaning. She had a meeting or something and couldn’t go until later, so we decided to meet at a restaurant down the block near 8th Street.

  I saw no need to perform the work Dempsey Rowland was paying me for this early in the day, so I decided I’d talk to Iris in payroll. I grabbed my portfolio and left my office.

  CHAPTER 15

  Payroll was buried deep in the Support Unit. I figured that most of the girls who worked there would be at lunch right about now so fewer of them would be around to give me a hard time. It made me kind of sad, though, because I wished some of them could be my friends; it was always cool to have lots of friends to go to lunch with.

  When I got to the Support Unit I saw a friendly face. Shawna was standing in her cube and waved when she spotted me.

  “How’s it going?” I asked, as I stopped outside her cube.

  “Cool,” she said.

  Today Shawna had a retro-fifties thing going on, with a full skirt and white blouse. She’d jazzed it up with flaming red accessories that really pulled the look together.

  It sure as heck looked like an outfit that was way more fun than my black business suit, and that meant Shawna would probably be fun, too. Maybe she’d be my friend, despite the fact that we worked in two different units.

  “Love your clothes,” I told her. “We should go shopping together on our lunch hour sometime.”

  “Sounds great,” Shawna said, then gave me a sad smile. “But I gave my notice. I’m leaving at the end of next week.”

  Darn. I finally found a friend here and she was leaving?

  “How come?” I asked.

  Shawna shrugged. “It’s grim here. No future.”

  I remembered she’d mentioned before that promotion out of the Support Unit was nearly impossible, even though lots of the girls here were qualified to do more.

  “I can’t say that I blame you,” I told her.

  “And that old guy Dempsey.” Shawna shook her head. “What a creep.”

  Okay, this was new. I hadn’t heard anyone say anything bad about the founder of the company.

  “He is?” I asked.

  She uttered a disgusted grunt. “Why do you think no young women work in the Executive Unit?”

  I’d noticed that everyone over there was either old or male, but I hadn’t devoted too many brain cells to figuring out why—not when I had a murder to solve, new clothes to buy, and a smoking-hot handbag to track down. But maybe I should.

  “Lunch and shopping later this week, for sure,” Shawna said, and picked up a stack of papers from her desk. “Got to run.”

  I wound my way to the payroll department and searched the cubes outside the glass-walled offices until I found the one that bore Iris’s nameplate. A clone of almost every other woman I’d seen in this office complex sat at the desk—fiftyish, gray haired, short, heavyset.

  “Iris?” I asked.

  She didn’t look up from her work. “If you have a problem with your paycheck, get a form from your immediate supervisor and route it thought interoffice mail.”

  I got the feeling she’d said that same sentence about a zillion times.

  “I’m here to talk with you about Violet Hamilton’s memorial service,” I said, and introduced myself.

  “Oh.” Iris looked up at me, startled, or like maybe she was concerned for my safety. “Does Mr. Dempsey know you’re doing this?”

  “I cleared everything through Ruth,” I said, which wasn’t exactly the truth, but, oh well.

  Before she had a chance to question me further, I pushed ahead.

  “I understand you and Violet were friends,” I said. “I want to consult with her family, of course, about the service. Would you suggest I contact her granddaughter?”

  Iris drew back, as if I’d slapped her. I shifted immediately into concerned-friend mode—which I’m not all that great at, really—and dropped into the chair next to her desk.

  “Did something happen between Violet and her granddaughter?” I asked, and luckily it came out sounding like I didn’t really already know the answer.

  Iris pressed her fingers to her lips and for a moment—eek!—I thought she was going to cry.

  What was with all the women who worked here that they acted like they were going to cry all the time? No wonder none of them were getting promoted, if they were boo-hooing at the drop of a hat.

  I figured it was best to just wait her out—not something I have the patience for, usually, but I needed to learn what was going on with Violet and her granddaughter, and I didn’t think I could handle questioning another old lady today.

  Finally, Iris pulled herself together.

  “Violet adored her granddaughter. Absolutely adored her,” Iris said. “Violet’s daughter—Dale’s mother—died when Dale was in her teens. Well, you can just imagine what that did to their relationship.”

  I couldn’t, but I didn’t say so.

  “Dale’s dad was a nice fellow, but not well-off. Violet wanted nothing but the best for Dale,” Iris went on. “She paid for her college, every cent of it. She even paid for Dale to get her master’s degree from Harvard. Violet flew her out for visits, took her on vacations, bought her a car—everything. Violet was there a few months ago for her graduation. She said they had a lovely time together.”

  “So what went wrong?” I asked.

  Iris shook her head. “I don’t really know. Violet wanted Dale to come to work here. Violet practically considered it her birthright, since she’d started the company alongside Mr. Dempsey. And Violet wanted Dale close to her—which was understandable. She’d paid for Dale’s MBA, and I think she wanted to show her off. Violet was so proud of the way she’d turned out.”

  “But Dale didn’t want to work here?” I asked.

  “I thought she did. She filled out an application, submitted her résumé, and started the interview process,” Iris said. “Then, out of the blue, the whole thing was called off.”

  “Dale changed her mind?” I asked.

  “I suppose so, but I don’t know why. Violet refused to talk about it—even to me, and we’d been friends for years,” Iris said. “Violet was bitterly disappointed, and things just weren’t the same between her and Dale after that.”

  Okay, that was a sad story, but I didn’t see how it could cause Dale to kill Violet, which blew my whole the-granddaughter-did-it theory. Still, I saw no reason to give up on it.

  “Do you think things were bad enough that Dale might have attacked Violet?” I asked.

  Iris’s eyes widened and she gasped aloud. “Oh, dear, I hadn’t thought about that.”

  “Well ... ?”

  She shook her head. “Violet had plenty to be upset about—I mean, who doesn’t working here?—but especially Violet. She really hadn’t been herself for the last month or so before she ... died. Still, I can’t imagine she and Dale would get physically violent.”

  I waited for a minute or two, hoping Iris might think of something new to add, but she didn’t.

  “Well, thanks,” I said.

  Iris touched my arm and gave me a gentle smile. “It’s really sweet of you to plan this service for Violet. It’s the least the company can do for her, after all the years she worked here.”

  Iris sounded sincere, and it was nice to know somebody appreciated what I was doing.

  “From everything I’ve heard, Violet was a really nice lady,” I said. “She sure gave a lot of years to this place.”

  “You have no idea,” Iris said softly.

  She gazed off into nothing, and I guessed she was remembering Violet and some of the things they’d been through working here together. I wanted to ask her if she had any idea who might have killed Violet, but didn’t. I couldn’t spoil the moment, which was weird of me, I know, but there it is.

  “You’re he
re at a good time,” Iris said quietly. “Things are changing. They’ll be different now, with Mr. Dempsey retiring. They’ll be better. Too bad those of us who hung in here for so long won’t benefit from it.”

  “Especially Violet?” I asked.

  Iris’s expression hardened, as if she’d mentally shifted gears. “I have to get back to work.”

  She turned back to her computer, so I left.

  I headed back to the Executive Unit and stopped by H.R. on the way. Adela was in her office, seated at her desk. She caught me out of the corner of her eye and waved me inside.

  “I’m planning Violet’s memorial service,” I said. “I’d like to get the contact info for—”

  Adela bolted out of her chair, her eyes all wide and crazy, as if she’d just seen a sneak preview of the Marc Jacobs fall line or something.

  “Does Mr. Dempsey know about this?” she demanded.

  Jeez, was this Groundhog Day or something?

  “Yes, he knows,” I told her. “I’m coordinating with Ruth.”

  Adela just glared at me, like I’d suddenly grown another head or something.

  “So anyway,” I said. “I need to invite Violet’s family. Can I get her granddaughter’s contact info from you? She applied for a job here a couple of months ago, so it must be on her employment application.”

  Adela’s expression soured. “Oh, yes ... that.”

  I expected Adela to take her seat again, access a file on her computer, and e-mail me the info, but instead she pulled a folder from the bottom drawer of one of the big file cabinets, opened it, and jotted down a name and number. Like most of the older ladies here, she didn’t seem all that crazy about using the latest technology.

  She handed me the slip of paper without a word. I went back to my office. When I stepped inside, I froze in place again.

  A huge bouquet of white roses sat on my desk, next to the yellow ones delivered earlier today.

  Okay, this was weird.

  I dug out the card and saw Ty’s handwriting on it. It said, Still thinking about you.

  Hum. Did he go to the florist again? Or had he just stood at the counter during his first visit and filled out both cards?

  Oh well. I guess that didn’t matter. Not really. Well, okay, maybe kind of. A little. No wait. It mattered a lot. I had to call Marcie immediately and get her take on it.

  Just as I was reaching for my phone, the wicked witch of the west—I mean, Ruth—stormed into my office.

  “Miss Randolph,” she said, which came out sounding like “you idiot.”

  Her back was rigid and her eyes bored into me like she had X-ray vision or something.

  “I specifically instructed you to have the plans for Violet Hamilton’s memorial service on my desk first thing this morning,” she told me. “And they weren’t there.”

  Okay, this old gal was ticking me off big time. I’m great at confrontation—I should probably list that as an asset on my résumé—and Ruth was about to find out that my skills bordered on superpowers.

  Still, I wasn’t in the mood to get fired today, so I held my temper.

  “The plans aren’t completed yet,” I told her in my I-can-be-as-big-a-bitch-as-you-can-be voice. “I have to contact Violet’s family, her granddaughter, specifically, and when I’ve done that I’ll—”

  Ruth’s eyes bulged. Her arms flattened against her sides. For a couple of seconds, I thought she was going to come at me.

  “You will do no such thing.” Ruth hissed the words at me through pressed lips. “This is exactly why you are to clear everything with me. This memorial service is for employees only. You are not to contact anyone in the family. Anyone!”

  What was with this woman? She’d gone all crazy on me over a memorial service?

  Ruth narrowed her eyes at me. “And don’t even think about inviting former employees who have retired.”

  Okay, now I was going to definitely have to hunt up some retired employees to invite.

  “Do you understand me?” Ruth demanded.

  “It’s kind of complicated, so I’m going to jot it down so I don’t forget,” I told her, then gestured to the tablet on my desk, which I didn’t bother to pick up, of course.

  We glared at each other for a few more seconds, then Ruth gave me what I guessed was the executive secretary version of stink-eye.

  “Mr. Dempsey will hear about this,” she told me, then whipped around and left my office.

  Jeez, what was the big deal about calling Violet’s granddaughter? It was the woman’s memorial service. Who ever heard of a memorial service that excluded the family?

  And why wouldn’t retired employees who’d known Violet be included on the guest list? She’d probably had friends here for decades.

  Ruth was sure as heck riled up about it, absolutely adamant that I not contact Dale or any of Violet’s family or friends. If I did, Ruth might actually have a stroke.

  Jeez, wouldn’t that be a shame.

  This whole memorial service was working my nerves big time. Dropping into my desk chair, I leaned back and closed my eyes, letting the delicate scent of Ty’s roses wash over me, waiting for the natural therapeutic qualities of the flowers to calm me.

  They didn’t calm me.

  My eyes popped open. I desperately needed a Snickers bar.

  I rifled through the desk drawers, the file cabinet, and my purse, but came up empty. Damn. Nothing left to do but head for the vending machine in the breakroom.

  Yes, I know I’d sworn not to eat chocolate anymore. But this was an emergency.

  I headed down the hallway focusing on the chocolate fix that awaited me, but I couldn’t get that whole don’t-call-Dale thing out of my head. Okay, so maybe Ruth wouldn’t want retired employees at the service, talking trash about how things were back in the day.

  But why had Ruth gone off on me when I mentioned Dale? Why had she insisted I not contact anyone in the family?

  It was crazy. Like having Dale at the memorial service would cause some huge problem. But what sort of problem?

  I stopped in the hallway.

  I definitely needed to find out.

  I whipped around and went back into my office, pulled out my cell phone, and dialed the number Adela had given me for Dale.

  This was better than a Snickers bar.

  Almost.

  CHAPTER 16

  Somehow, it was still Monday.

  My days of working at Dempsey Rowland, then pulling my evening shift at Holt’s, made for a lot of hours in service to others—something I wasn’t all that crazy about. So what could I do but compensate by taking longer breaks at Holt’s?

  I sat at the table in the breakroom, leafing through People magazine. Bella sat across from me flipping through Elle. Her tropical phase of hair design continued. Tonight, it looked as if a hula dancer were perched atop her head.

  Around us, other employees came and went, heating up food in the microwave, eating snacks from the vending machine. A new addition to the breakroom was a television, which sat on the counter near the refrigerator, tuned to a news channel that nobody was watching.

  “It’s b.s.,” Bella said. “Nothing but b.s., pure and simple.”

  At first I thought she was talking about something she’d spotted in the magazine—which, of course, I’d want to see immediately—then realized she was looking at the notices pinned to the bulletin board across the room.

  “Training reviews,” Bella grumbled. “Starting today.”

  I remembered somebody mentioning that Corporate was cracking down on training, assigning an employee to make sure we attended every butt-numbing, sleep-inducing session they came up with. And now they’d actually done it? Okay, this was really annoying.

  The breakroom door swung open and Sandy walked in. She got a soda from the vending machine and sat down at the table with us.

  “Have you had your b.s. training review yet?” Bella asked.

  “No,” Sandy said. “Your review is tonight, Haley.”

/>   I was having a training review?

  “You’re on the schedule,” Sandy said, gesturing toward the bulletin board.

  There’s a schedule?

  “Let us know how it goes,” Sandy said.

  “It’ll be b.s.,” Bella said. “Everything Corporate does is b.s.”

  Neither of us could argue with that.

  “Look at those women,” Bella said, gesturing toward the television. “When I finish beauty school, I’m going to run my own salon, and you’re going to see all the celebrities flaunting themselves with my hairstyles. And then—hey, what the hell? Look at that.”

  Sandy and I both turned to the TV. A shampoo commercial was playing. A blonde with super long hair wagged her head back and forth, showing how full and lustrous it was. I’d seen this kind of advertisement a zillion times, but something looked different about this one. Something about the girl with the long hair.

  Then it hit me.

  “Oh my God,” I said. “Is that—”

  “No way,” Sandy insisted.

  “Yeah, it is,” Bella declared.

  We all sat glued to the TV set, watching the commercial run.

  “It is her,” I realized.

  “Definitely,” Sandy agreed.

  It was that girl whose name I can never remember. She used to work here at Holt’s and stink up the breakroom with those diet meals she ate all the time. She’d lost like a hundred pounds, or something, dyed her hair blond, ditched her glasses, and quit Holt’s. I’d seen her modeling for a clothing print ad not long ago. And now she was in a commercial on TV?

  “She looks great,” Sandy said.

  “I saw her last week in a Pepsi ad,” Bella said. “She was holding a baby and yelling at her husband.”

  “Wow,” Sandy said.

  “I hate her,” Bella said.

  I hated her, too, of course.

  We all just sat there for a few minutes after the commercial ended, jealous and envious but not wanting to admit to it. Then finally Sandy said, “I went shopping with my ex-boyfriend today.”

  Like this was supposed to cheer us up?

  “Tat-guy?” Bella asked. “You went shopping with him?”

  “You two broke up,” I said.