The women in line gave her superior looks—ironic, considering she was putting up gates to confine them. She pasted on her best sales smile and thanked them for coming, then limped back to the sales floor and waited on women who at the eleventh hour had succumbed to the temptation to own a pair of the infamous shoes so that they could have them signed by the creator. For two hours she sold shoes as fast as she could tote them from the showroom. She kept her mind off her aching feet by concentrating on the commission she was earning. She had just slid off one of her pumps to massage her heel when Sammy Sanders walked up wearing a tight black dress and a pained smile.
“Jolie, do you work on Saturdays too?”
Jolie bit the end of her tongue, then nodded.
“Wow, that doesn’t leave you much time to sell real estate, does it?”
Jolie tasted blood.
“And, oh, you poor dear…I heard about Gary’s car being pulled out of the river—with a woman inside!”
Jolie nodded.
Sammy’s eyes were large and shocked. “Do you know who it is?”
Jolie shook her head.
“Do they think Gary is dead, too?”
Jolie pursed her mouth. “Did you need some help, Sammy?”
Sammy sniffed. “I understand—you can’t talk about it while you’re on the clock.” She released a musically sympathetic sigh. “Well, I closed a big, big deal this week, and decided to splurge and buy myself another pair of Manolos, something really special. I figured the least I could do was to let you have the commission.”
Jolie’s cheeks burned, but Sammy seemed ready to spend a lot of money. Being in no position to turn away business, she suddenly had a bright idea. She smiled and removed the glass case key from the cash register. “I know just the thing—we have only a couple of pairs left, and the size seven is on display.”
As Jolie expected, Sammy fell in love with the pink-and-rhinestone shoes that Carlotta had worn to the High Museum party a few nights ago.
“I’ll take them,” Sammy announced, then looked up. “I saw another pair of shoes while I was here the other day…silver-colored pumps with cutouts?”
Jolie’s mouth twitched—the shoes she herself had worn last night. “I believe I know which ones you’re talking about. Just a minute.” She went to the stockroom and returned with the box she’d given to Michael earlier. “These?”
“Yes, those are lovely.”
Jolie removed the cardboard stays that had so distressed her feet, then knelt and eased them onto Sammy’s perfectly pedicured puppies. Sammy stood and beamed her satisfaction. “I’ll take these, too.” She lifted her hands. “Gee, Jolie, you seem to have a real gift for retail sales.”
Jolie wanted to kick her, but sucked up the backhanded compliment and repacked the pricey shoes. She was, after all, using Sammy to dispose of the shoes that she and Carlotta had “borrowed.” “Thanks…Sammy.”
When they reached the counter, the woman tossed her hair, then said, “The Singer deal fell through.”
Jolie looked up. The deal she’d quit over. “Oh?”
“You didn’t know?”
Jolie frowned. “How would I have known?”
Sammy shrugged. “I just wondered if anyone had…contacted you, asking questions.”
Her mind raced—questions meaning someone had suspected Sammy was playing both sides against the middle? “No,” she said evenly, and began ringing up the sale, sending inconspicuous glances in the direction of the woman for whom she used to work. Sammy seemed agitated, touching her face a lot, stroking her hair. Jolie had never before seen Sammy rattled. It was kind of…leveling.
Jolie announced the total of the sale—over twenty-four hundred dollars, thankyouverymuch. When Sammy opened her small, green Kate Spade bag, Jolie caught a glimpse of metal and remembered with a jolt that Sammy had a permit to carry a concealed handgun. Jolie conceded that being a female real-estate agent could land a woman in remote locations with strangers, but she’d always wondered if Sammy had ulterior motives for being armed, such as protecting herself from anyone she might have double-crossed.
Sammy withdrew a pink lizard-skin wallet and removed a wad of hundreds. Jolie wasn’t completely surprised—it would be just like Sammy to keep some of the agency’s business off the books and pocket the cash.
Jolie counted the hundreds carefully, then said, “You gave me five hundred too much,” and slid the extra bills back toward Sammy.
“That’s for you,” Sammy said, her expression completely still.
Jolie blinked. “Excuse me?”
Sammy pushed the money back toward Jolie. “Call it severance.”
Astonishment bled through her limbs even as her mind was screaming, Take it! Take it! She could buy a copier, stationery, a ticket to Cancun. “I…can’t take that money, Sammy.”
“Sure you can.”
A bribe in case someone came around asking questions about Sammy’s business practices. Jolie hardened her jaw and pushed the money back with finality. “But I won’t.”
Sammy gave a little laugh and folded the extra cash back into her wallet. “That’s always been your problem, Jolie—you can’t see that sometimes the right thing to do is the easy thing to do.”
Swallowing the words that jumped to her throat, Jolie finished ringing up the sale and passed Sammy her change. She reached for the boxes to bag them, and Carlotta materialized by her side.
“I’ll do that,” she said, then smiled at Sammy. “Nice shoes.”
Sammy tilted her head. “Aren’t they?”
“Yes,” Carlotta said, handing her the shopping bag. “Thank you for shopping at Neiman Marcus. Enjoy the event.”
“I will, thank you.” Sammy glared at Jolie. “I hope they catch your boyfriend.” Then she whipped around and stalked off.
“Brrr,” Carlotta said. She was dressed in a black jacket that was longer than her black miniskirt, dark tights, and a pair of black-satin-and-embroidered stiletto demi-boots with tassels around the top. Vintage Manolo. She offered a gapped grin. “I can’t wait to crash her party tonight. Did I see her trying to give you money?”
Jolie nodded. “Hush money.”
“You didn’t take it?”
“Nope.”
Carlotta emitted a dry laugh. “Well, tell me whatever it is and she can pay me hush money.”
Jolie bit into her lip, knowing her friend was thinking about the money she owed in a few days’ time to the man who’d come to see her at work.
“I see you sold our shoes,” Carlotta said, changing the subject. “I take it Michael didn’t give you any problems?”
“No,” Jolie said. “But I feel terrible.”
“It’ll pass. Christ, this place is a zoo.”
Jolie looked up to see Michael directing the placement of enormous bouquets of white helium balloons. Thumping music played over the speakers at a volume that Jolie had never heard in the store. Nervous energy crackled in the air as the conversation level rose from a hum to a dull roar. Black suits abounded as senior management arrived and store security multiplied. The press had been funneled into an area near the front of the line so cameras could capture the frenzy. Reporters interviewed the women standing in line. She saw Sammy put on her Sanders Realty badge and mug for a camera.
“Where’s the jumpsuit?” Carlotta murmured.
“In my locker in the break room.”
“Let me have it, and I’ll process your return while no one is around.”
Carlotta followed her into the stock room, quizzing her.
“No stains, right?”
“Right.”
“Did you run it through the dryer on air to get out the cigarette smoke?”
“Yes.”
“How are the tags?”
“Perfect.”
She unlocked the locker and withdrew the black dress bag. “Thanks, Carlotta. I felt like Cinderella last night.”
Carlotta pshawed, but Jolie could tell she was pleased. “You didn’t lea
ve anything in the pockets, did you?”
Jolie covered her mouth. “Oh my God—his business card. I can’t believe I forgot about the card.”
“LeMon’s?”
Jolie nodded and unzipped the bag. “It might have fallen out in the dryer—no, here it is.” She pulled out the card and turned it over to see if the “private” number he’d written was still legible. It was…and so was the note he’d scribbled.
I know what you want.
She inhaled sharply, then showed Carlotta the card. “He must have recognized me.”
Carlotta squinted. “Wait…He gave you the card just as the Underwoods walked up. If he knew who you were, he hadn’t figured it out at that point…had he?”
“I don’t know.” Jolie touched her temple, trying to remember the series of conversations and events.
“Maybe the jerk meant it as a come-on, as in ‘I know what you want: me.’ ”
Jolie’s shoulders dropped. “You’re probably right,” she said, trying to convince herself. “Else, why would he have written his number?”
“Right.”
“Right.” Jolie tucked the card inside her jacket pocket and zipped the garment bag with a shaking hand.
“Jolie,” Carlotta said, her voice tinged with concern. “Have you told the police about LeMon?”
“I’m going to call the detective on the case this afternoon.” She checked her cell phone—Salyers had called again.
“Jolie!” Michael yelled into the stockroom. “A totem-beaded mule in size six, and a Carmine ankle-tie pump in size nine! Hurry!”
Carlotta hooked her fingers into the hanger and slung the garment bag over her shoulder. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
Jolie nodded, then scrambled to get the shoes that Michael needed, trying to put Roger LeMon out of her head. When she emerged with the shoes, she was confronted with a crowd that had grown exponentially—the sales floor was a solid mass of bodies, and the line to meet Manolo Blahnik snaked out of the department and through the belly of the store. Jolie handed the requested shoes to Michael, then glanced around to see what she could do to help in the confusion. A bearded face in the crowd caught her attention. Gary?
Her pulse spiked as she stepped to the side to get a better look. But the crowd shifted too, and the face was lost in a sea of shuffling bodies. A droning noise sounded, like a swarm of killer bees, as a murmur moved through the crowd. The mob of shoppers turned collectively to see Manolo Blahnik stride in, flanked by security and his “people.” A cheer went up and the older gentleman raised his hand and smiled in greeting. He was a striking figure dressed in a dark suit, his thinning white hair combed back, his jet-black eyebrows setting off inquisitive eyes.
Jolie’s first thought was that he looked like a banker. But when the crowd pressed forward and his security inched closer, her next thought was that anything could happen in a crowd like this—shoplifting, pick-pocketing…or worse. She scanned the crowd frantically, looking for the face she thought was Gary’s. Manolo Blahnik began to speak to the press, and someone jostled her from behind as everyone surged forward for a better spot. She jerked around, jittery now and a little claustrophobic. The air conditioner hadn’t caught up with the crush of bodies, and her underarms and neck were moist. She fanned the neckline of her blouse and decided to move toward the front to get more air.
With whispered apologies, she elbowed and sidled through bodies until she was standing a few feet behind the shoe designer. Lights glared on him and cameras rolled, reminding her of last night when Beck Underwood had been interviewed at the reception. She’d sat up like a groupie to catch the fifteen-second spot on the local news.
“Beckham Underwood, son of Lawrence Underwood and heir to the Underwood Broadcasting empire, was on hand to honor the award nominees of the Broadcasters and Journalists of Georgia. Mr. Underwood, who has been living in Costa Rica for the last few years, says he’s glad to be home, but is cagey about whether or not he’ll stay to take over his father’s company.”
“I love Atlanta,” Beck had said. “But I enjoyed the work I did in Costa Rica, helping to build the infrastructure to support a broadcasting venture there. I haven’t ruled out going back. It’s important that we support communications growth in developing countries.”
He had looked so handsome, she was sure hearts were breaking all over Atlanta at the news that he might not stick around for long.
Not my heart, of course, she thought while easing around the perimeter of the crowd. Her heart was perfectly intact and beating wildly at the thought of Gary being close by. Was he watching her, worried about her? Did he have a message for her?
Or was her mind playing tricks on her?
She kept her eyes peeled, but when Manolo launched into the history of his involvement with shoes, her pulse had begun to settle down. And then she saw Roger LeMon.
His head was turned and he wore sunglasses, but she recognized his profile. He was about ten yards away. The reporters and the guest of honor stood between her and him.
The breath froze in her lungs. It couldn’t be a coincidence that she thought she’d seen Gary, and now LeMon was standing right in front of her. Before Jolie could decide what to do, LeMon turned his head and appeared to look directly at her. In fact, he took a half step forward before he seemed to remember where he was and stopped.
At that moment, the speech ended. Applause sounded and chaos reigned as Manolo Blahnik headed toward the line of shoppers waiting to meet him. In the confusion, Jolie lost sight of LeMon, and hoped he’d lost sight of her. Panic rose up in her stomach. Had Gary followed LeMon, or had LeMon followed Gary? She made a beeline for cosmetics and was almost in the clear when a shot rang out, then another, then three more in rapid succession. Startled screams sounded and Jolie dove under a hosiery display, covering her head and waiting for something to bleed.
She peeked through her fingers and saw people gathered around, gaping at her. It must be bad, she thought, because she couldn’t feel any pain.
Suddenly Michael’s face appeared above hers. “Jolie,” he hissed. “You’re causing a scene.”
She patted various parts of her body. “But the gunshots…”
“They weren’t gunshots, for God’s sake—a few balloons broke free and hit the lights. Come out from under there.”
She closed her eyes briefly and considered telling Michael to roll her out of the way. Instead she allowed him to help her to her feet, and gave a tentative smile to those standing around. Their guest of honor had paused, but Michael signaled that he should resume, then put his hand on Jolie’s elbow and shepherded her toward the stockroom.
“What was that all about?” he asked when they were out of earshot.
Jolie glanced behind her, looking for Gary or Roger LeMon, but saw neither. She looked back and lifted her hands. “I…I’ve been jumpy…lately.”
“Does this have anything to do with your boyfriend?”
“Indirectly,” she murmured. “I’m sorry.”
He sighed. “Why don’t you call it a day? I’ll see you Monday.”
She nodded and went to gather her things from her locker. Michael must think she was a lunatic. Which wouldn’t be surprising, considering she was starting to have her own doubts about her sanity.
“Hey.”
She looked up and saw Carlotta standing at the door of the break room. “Hey.”
“I heard.”
Jolie inhaled and touched her forehead. “I thought I saw Gary, and I’m sure I saw Roger LeMon, and when the balloons burst—”
“You saw your boyfriend? Are you sure?”
“Not positively. But I did see Roger LeMon, and why would he be here?”
Carlotta shrugged. “He’s married, isn’t he? Maybe he’s here with his wife.” She bit into her lip. “Look…Jolie. I don’t like Roger LeMon any more than you do, but…”
“But you think I’m being paranoid?”
The woman touched Jolie’s arm. “You’re in a bad place,�
�� she said softly. “Your boyfriend is missing, a woman is dead—no one would want to believe that someone they care about is capable of that kind of thing. You’re starting a new job…Maybe the stress is just too much for you. Even if the two men knew each other, that doesn’t mean that Roger LeMon had anything to do with what happened to your boyfriend…does it?”
Jolie looked into Carlotta’s clear eyes and wondered how far out a limb her own imagination had taken her. She had thought the man with the car trouble was stalking her, and just a few minutes ago she had thought she was being shot at. The only true threat was Gary. He was the one who’d stolen her car, who had lain in wait to threaten her. She needed to talk to Salyers, to tell her everything.
Jolie exhaled. “You’re right…You’re right.”
Carlotta looked relieved. “Now go home and get some rest.” She grinned. “You’re going to need it for the party tonight.”
Jolie shook her head. “I don’t think I should go.”
“Of course you should go. It won’t be fun for me and Hannah to crash without you. Besides, I’m going shopping for us later in sleepwear.”
Jolie’s eyes widened. “Carlotta, I don’t want to do that again. I feel like it’s stealing.”
Carlotta dismissed her concerns with a wave. “How often do you get a chance to wear fabulous loungewear?” She grinned. “Come on, let’s have some fun tonight—at your ex-boss’s expense.”
It would be nice to get one up on Sammy for once. Jolie mulled over that thought. And she was dying to see the woman’s home. “Do you have another wig?”
Carlotta nodded emphatically. “Tell me where you live. Hannah and I will come to your place to get ready.”
Jolie gave in to a smile and supplied Carlotta with the address and directions, then said goodbye and left by the back hallway that emptied into the men’s department. She skirted behind the crowd, feeling a little better. She would let the police take care of everything where Gary was concerned, so she could concentrate on getting her brokerage company off the ground. Finding Beck Underwood a place to live would give her a tidy nest egg to draw from.
Party Crashers Page 14