Tote Bags and Toe Tags

by Dorothy Howell

  “You saw her today, didn’t you,” Madison said.

  It wasn’t a question. He already knew.

  My weird feeling turned sickly.

  “What happened?” I asked. “Is Erma okay?”

  “She’s dead,” Madison told me. “Murdered in her own home. And you were the last person to see her alive.”

  Oh, crap.

  CHAPTER 24

  Erma was dead. I could hardly believe it.

  I sat in my office the next morning ignoring my official Dempsey Rowland duties, lost in the recollection of my confrontation with Detectives Madison and Shuman in Holt’s last night.

  Well, actually, it wasn’t really a confrontation. When Madison had claimed I was the last person to see Erma alive and suggested that I was responsible for her death, I just walked out. I was surprised—and relieved—that neither detective came after me. At first I thought it was kind of odd, since they’d come all the way to the store to talk to me, then I figured Madison was just trying to scare me by showing up, and he had no real evidence against me.

  Jeez, I really hope he has no evidence against me.

  My cell phone made a familiar pinging noise. I glanced at it on the corner of my desk and saw that I had a text message from Marcie, but I wasn’t ready to read it. Erma was still in my head, big time.

  I’d just seen her at lunch yesterday, and now she was gone—not just gone, but murdered. She seemed like a nice lady who’d worked hard most of her life and deserved to enjoy her retirement. Now that wouldn’t happen.

  I was grateful she’d given me the list of retirees and people Dempsey Rowland had done business with over the years who knew Violet. I’d contacted them all yesterday afternoon, and most everyone wanted to attend tomorrow’s memorial service.

  I wondered if anyone would have that kind of service for Erma.

  I gave myself a mental shake. Enough with the depressing thoughts. I had to move on.

  The files Jack had retrieved for me from Constance’s office last night were stacked on my credenza. I had to go through them and figure out just what the heck was going on with Mr. Dempsey’s retirement party.

  Jack looking way hot in that white wifebeater sprang into my mind.

  I forced the image away.

  Jack, trying to kiss me.

  Jeez, maybe I should stick with the depressing thoughts of Erma dying.

  I decided to call Marcie. I had a lot to talk to her about and she always made me feel better about things.

  I called and she answered right away.

  “Were the reports what you expected?” Marcie asked.

  What the heck was she talking about?

  “The reports,” she said again, like she could read my mind, or something—which, I guess, she kind of could. “The title searches you asked for. I sent them to you a few minutes ago.”

  Jeez, that must have been the text message she’d sent. I’d forgotten all about it.

  “They’re great,” I said. “Thanks. I owe you.”

  “Want to go shopping on Saturday?” Marcie asked. “I’m itching to go to the factory outlet mall in Camarillo. We can leave early and spend the whole day.”

  My spirits lifted.

  “You bet,” I said. “We can stop at that—oh, crap.”

  I was supposed to be at Holt’s all day on Saturday making up those stupid training sessions.

  I hate training.

  “What’s wrong?” Marcie asked. “You can’t make it?”

  No way was I missing out on a trip to the outlet mall.

  This morning when Ty handed me my lunch—it was omega-3 and magnesium day, apparently—he mentioned that he had a meeting at the Golden State Bank & Trust at one o’clock today.

  He explained why, but I drifted off.

  I’d just go to the B&T—if I interrupted an important meeting, oh well—and have him sign a statement excusing me from making up those training sessions, and I’d be free to shop all weekend long if I wanted.

  “No problem,” I said to Marcie. “I’m in.”

  We hung up. I got on my computer and generated a statement for Ty to sign—on fake Holt’s letterhead—and tucked it inside my purse, a totally fabulous Dior clutch. This put me in the mood to work, but I fought that off by reading the text message Marcie had sent me.

  Just as she’d said on the phone, the two title reports I’d asked her to do on Max Corwin were complete. She’d e-mailed them to me.

  My heart rate picked up a little as I logged onto my e-mail account. If the title reports contained the info I hoped for—that Max Corwin owned two houses and had two families—that meant he had a humongous motive for murdering Violet.

  Of course, that might also mean that he’d killed Erma. I figured the two murders had to be related. I didn’t know how, exactly. I’d worry about that later.

  I opened the files with the title reports. They contained all kinds of information about the property—the legal description, taxes, mortgages. Most of it I didn’t understand—or care about.

  The property on Tampa Avenue in Northridge showed the legal owners were Maxwell Corwin and Melanie Corwin, husband and wife.

  The El Segundo property was vested to Maxwell Corwin and Mandy Corwin, husband and wife.

  I couldn’t help it. My mouth flew open.

  Oh my God. I’d been right. Max secretly had two families.

  Bastard.

  If this wasn’t a motive to murder the person doing background investigations, I didn’t know what was. I grabbed my cell phone and called Detective Shuman, as I printed out the title reports.

  “We need to talk,” I said when he answered.

  I could hear voices and phones ringing, and figured he was in the squad room. Madison was probably seated nearby.

  “About what?” Shuman asked.

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” I said. “I’m not confessing to anything.”

  I wanted to talk to Shuman alone, and tell him what I’d learned. If the info I had on Max Corwin turned out to break the case, no way did I want Madison to take any of the credit for it.

  “Starbucks on Fig at twelve-thirty,” I said.

  Shuman paused for about ten seconds, then said, “I can do that.”

  He hung up and so did I.

  It was still early and my meeting with Shuman was hours away, so there was nothing to do but perform some actual work.

  I hate it when that happens.

  Mr. Dempsey’s retirement party—and, thus, my opportunity to keep my job—had to be my priority. I picked up the files from my credenza and started looking through them.

  Immediately, I was overwhelmed.

  Constance—whose handwriting resembled that of a serial killer—had written comments on everything, but in no particular order. Pink sticky notes were plastered over yellow sticky notes. Orange highlighter struck through blue highlighter. There were list after list of names, addresses, places, and times. A huge stack of papers that looked like legal contracts was clipped together.

  Jeez, how was anybody supposed to make sense out of this?

  I drew in a big cleansing breath and blew it out slowly.

  There was nothing to do but buck up, dig in, and hunker down.

  But, well, no sense in getting into this thing too deep right now. Somehow, there had to be an easier way.

  Maybe Constance had straightened out all this mess when she’d input it into her computer. I hunted through the pile of files for the disk Jack had copied last night and, instead, found the one with the pink and black Burberry case.

  Huh. I knew I’d seen this pattern recently, but where?

  The new employee orientation session on my first day of work here flashed in my mind. I’d seen this pattern on Violet’s laptop case.

  A great idea zapped me. If this Burberry pattern was on her laptop, that must mean this CD case belonged to her, too.

  Oh my God. What if there was a major clue on the CD?

  I popped it open. Inside was a disk labeled DEMPS
EY ROWLAND THROUGH THE YEARS.

  Damn. Not exactly the smoking hot piece of evidence I was hoping for. More like a stroll down Dempsey Rowland memory lane.

  Violet had worked for the company since its inception, so she probably had photos from day one. I figured she’d scanned them onto the disk so Constance could show them at Mr. Dempsey’s retirement party.

  Or maybe Constance had made the CD herself and just borrowed the case from Violet, or perhaps Constance had her own pink and black Burberry office accessory collection.

  Regardless, nothing on the disk was going to help me figure out what was up with Mr. Dempsey’s party and get it staged in an I-can’t-possibly-be-fired fashion.

  My office phone rang.

  “Your cupcakes have arrived,” Camille said when I answered.

  “I’ll be right there,” I said, and hung up.

  Wow, I hadn’t realized it was noon already. I’d put several hours into trying to figure out what was going on with the retirement party, but hadn’t gotten very far.

  I figured I could always go to the Roosevelt Hotel and try to fumble my way through an interview with their event coordinator and not look like a complete idiot, but I wasn’t confident I could pull that off.

  Amber, Ty’s personal assistant, popped into my head. She was a whiz at absolutely everything. I was sure she could make sense of Constance’s notes in no time.

  I shoved all the files into the no-name tote I’d purchased yesterday—oh my God, I desperately needed that Temptress—along with the title reports I’d printed out and planned to show Shuman. I’d call Amber after I finished with him, and ask her to meet me somewhere.

  Wow, am I good at this, or what?

  I went to the reception area, relieved to see that the guy from the bakery hadn’t taken one look at Camille and bolted. She made him sign in—good grief—then he helped me deliver the cupcakes to all the breakrooms.

  They looked really yummy. I ate one—okay, two—but only to be certain they were the top quality cupcakes Dempsey Rowland employees deserved.

  By the time I got back to my office and sent out an e-mail to all the employees announcing that cupcakes were available, it was nearly 12:30. I grabbed my handbag—a gorgeous Dior—along with the tote, and left.

  As promised, Detective Shuman sat at a table by the window in Starbucks. He had on his usual dress-shirt-tie-sport-coat combo that didn’t look all that great together. I figured that meant he and Amanda weren’t living together—no way would she have let him out of the house looking like that—and for some reason I was kind of glad. Just kind of glad. Not really glad. Okay, well maybe a little more than kind of glad.

  Anyway, Shuman was working on a coffee. A mocha frappuccino waited at the spot across from him.

  “My favorite,” I said, sitting down. “How did you know?”

  “I am a detective,” Shuman reminded me.

  It was nice—really nice—that he had paid attention to what my favorite drink was and had bought it for me. So I certainly couldn’t refuse it. How rude would that be? Besides, one exception to my whole-new-me plan wouldn’t hurt anything, and I did have Ty’s barley and bean broth soup waiting for me back at the office. It was low sodium day, apparently.

  “Thanks,” I said, taking a long sip. “Oh, and by the way, I didn’t kill Erma Pomeroy.”

  Shuman gave me a half grin, then shifted into detective mode.

  “Madison thinks her death is connected to Violet Hamilton’s murder,” he said.

  “Because Violet worked for Dempsey Rowland, and Erma had recently retired from there?” I asked.

  “Cause of death, too,” Shuman said. “Blunt force trauma to the skull.”

  I flashed on Erma getting hit on the head with something big and heavy. Not good. I forced the image out of my thoughts.

  “Any other connection?” I asked.

  “You.”

  Oh, crap.

  “Look, I saw Erma at lunch to get the names of Dempsey Rowland retirees who might want to come to Violet’s memorial service. That’s the first time I’d met or talked to her. And I only knew Violet because of the new-hire orientation class I was forced to attend,” I said. “That’s not much of a connection.”

  “It’s more than we’ve got anywhere else,” Shuman admitted.

  Oh, jeez. This wasn’t good.

  “So, what? You think I had some problem with Erma, invited her to lunch, then followed her home and bashed her over the head with something?” I asked.

  Shuman sipped his coffee. “If not you, then who?”

  “How would I possibly know?” I asked.

  Okay, I was getting a little fired up right now. I didn’t come here to get grilled over Erma’s murder. I was here to pass along my newly discovered, sizzling hot evidence against Max Corwin. Apparently, Shuman didn’t realize I was about to do his career a huge favor.

  “You might have been on to something with Tina Sheldon,” Shuman said.

  What the heck was he talking about?

  I mentally changed gears and remembered that I’d told Shuman about the mysterious trip Tina had taken down the 5 the morning I’d followed her, and that she’d lied to me about it the next day.

  “Seems Ms. Sheldon makes numerous trips to Mexico in her van, according to her GPS,” Shuman said. “She drives down, crosses the border, stays for a few minutes, then comes back.”

  I gasped. “Oh my God. Do you think she’s smuggling people into the country?”

  “Could be,” Shuman said. “A middle-aged white woman in a nice van wouldn’t attract much attention from the border guards. They wouldn’t be likely to search her vehicle.”

  “Yeah, but if she got caught she’d be in major hot water,” I said.

  “And if she didn’t, she’d make major bucks,” Shuman said. “We alerted the border patrol. They’ll target her vehicle and search it next time she crosses back into the U.S.”

  Oh, wow. I’d actually solved a crime—but it was the wrong one.

  I hate it when that happens.

  “Tina wouldn’t have known Dempsey Rowland required a background investigation,” I said. “Sounds like a motive for murder, if you ask me.”

  “Madison is working that angle, but I don’t like it,” Shuman said. “Doesn’t make sense. Sure, killing Violet Hamilton would delay the new-hire investigations, but sooner or later they would be completed. Anybody with something to hide would be exposed. The best anyone could hope for would be to work there awhile, pick up a few paychecks, maybe network a little in the hope of finding another job somewhere.”

  I’d thought those same things myself. But so far, the only lead I’d had that wasn’t connected to the background investigations had turned out to be nothing.

  I guess Shuman was having the same problem.

  “Maybe that’s exactly what Tina is doing,” I said.

  He frowned his cop frown—it’s way hot—and I knew he was considering the possibility.

  “I’m not crazy about it, but it’s our strongest lead.” Shuman shrugged. “People have murdered for less.”

  Now I wasn’t sure if I should tell him about Max Corwin’s secret double life. Shuman was convinced Violet’s murder had nothing to do with the background investigations so my telling him about Max would only distract him, maybe slow him down and delay his discovery of the actual murderer. Besides, for all I knew, Shuman had already uncovered Max’s duplicity, and I didn’t want to look like an idiot by telling him something he already knew.

  “So if you didn’t kill Erma,” Shuman said, “do you know who did?”

  I huffed, just to be sure he knew this question didn’t suit me.

  “Look, it’s like I already told you,” I said. “I had lunch with Erma. We talked about the olden days at Dempsey Rowland. She told me about Violet and how she didn’t get along with—”

  Hang on a second. Something did happen at lunch—or after lunch, when I was leaving. Why hadn’t I put this together sooner?

  Shuman
leaned toward me. His cop sensors were on high alert.

  “Erma told me that Violet never got along with Ruth Baker, Mr. Dempsey’s executive secretary,” I said. “As I was leaving the restaurant, I saw Ruth waiting for a table. She was giving both of us triple-stink-eye in a really creepy way.”

  Shuman didn’t say anything.

  “Ruth might have followed Erma home and murdered her,” I said.

  Cool.

  CHAPTER 25

  I was mega stoked thinking that Voldemort—I mean, Ruth—had actually murdered both Violet and Erma.

  The evidence spun through my mind as I walked up Figueroa Street toward the Golden State Bank & Trust on Wilshire Boulevard.

  From everything I’d heard, Ruth was protective of Mr. Dempsey and Violet had resented it, understandably so, given her history with the company. Ruth hadn’t liked Violet for the same reason. The two of them had probably battled it out for years over Mr. Dempsey’s attention.

  Iris had told me that she’d seen Violet the day before her murder coming back from the Executive Unit absolutely furious about something. Had Ruth not let Violet see him? Had that been the last straw between them? Had the two of them had one final confrontation in Constance’s office the next morning, and Ruth killed her?

  And what about the memorial service? Ruth must have been the one who insisted I plan a memorial service for Violet, as a way to throw suspicion off of herself. She’d told me it was Mr. Dempsey’s idea, but everyone I’d talked to doubted his involvement.

  Oh, yeah. Ruth was suspect numero uno—to my way of thinking, anyway. Shuman wasn’t quite as thrilled when I laid it all out for him in Starbucks, but he at least listened.

  I hoisted my tote higher on my arm—jeez, I really hope nobody important sees me with this thing—and reached into my handbag for my cell phone.

  I had to call Amber and see if she could meet me somewhere this afternoon and sort out the details of the retirement party. Her voicemail picked up so I left a message.

  Next, I had to find Ty at the Golden State Bank & Trust and have him sign my letter about those stupid Holt’s training classes. Hopefully, Amber would call back by then.

  My afternoon would be perfect—if I could just get people to put aside their own plans and problems and help me with mine.