Dorothy Howell

by Haley Randolph 03 - Shoulder Bags; Shootings (v5)

  I passed by the door to the employee breakroom and stopped. Technically, I was performing a service for Holt’s, wasn’t I? Didn’t that mean I should be on the clock? I mean, jeez, finding a dead body in the company parking lot ought to entitle me to something, shouldn’t it?

  I slipped into the breakroom, grabbed my time card, and clocked in.

  I headed down the hallway to the offices. Jeanette’s door was open so I walked in, then reeled back in horror. She had on that awful pink and orange print dress.

  How much should I have to endure from a crappy part-time job?

  “Haley,” she said, “this is a surprise. I didn’t—oh goodness, what’s wrong?”

  “I found a dead body,” I said.

  She huffed irritably. “Again?”

  After what happened here last fall, then again a few weeks ago, I guess Jeanette had grown a little callous. Can’t say that I blamed her.

  Maybe Holt’s should start stocking orange cones and yellow crime scene tape.

  “In the back parking lot,” I said. “I already called it in.”

  Jeanette shot me a scathing look, then hoisted herself out of her chair and started punching buttons on her cell phone as we walked.

  We waited near Ada’s Mercedes, Jeanette a discreet distance away as she spoke with someone, presumably, at the Holt’s corporate office. A half a dozen emergency vehicles roared into the lot a few minutes later, lights flashing, sirens blaring, and screeched to a halt near us. Jeanette was still on the phone so I gave them a brief rundown of what had happened, and pointed to the trunk.

  Apparently, Jeanette picked this particular moment to call everyone in her address book, because she stayed on the phone, away from the crime scene, well away from me. Occasionally, she gave me a nasty look—like this was my fault or something.

  I’m glad I clocked in.

  Finally, she walked over. “I’m going to need a statement from you,” she told me.

  From her tone I figured she’d been talking to the lawyers at Pike Warner, Holt’s law firm.

  “I don’t know anything about this,” I insisted, waving my hand toward Ada’s Mercedes. “I’m completely uninvolved with anything to do with murder.”

  “Hi, Haley,” a paramedic called.

  Two other guys in uniform turned and waved.

  “Hey, girl,” one called.

  “How was your trip?” another asked.

  Okay, this was sort of embarrassing.

  Jeanette’s eyes narrowed again and she stomped away, punching at her cell phone.

  I’d had enough. I was going inside. I turned to leave, only to spot a plain vanilla Crown Vic roll up. Police detectives Madison and Shuman got out.

  We had history.

  Detective Madison was way overdue for retirement—probably hanging around until he could finally pin a murder on me—and looked every one of his sixty-plus years. He had a jelly belly, and wore a plaid sport coat and oxfords with the heels run down. There was a gravy stain on his tie.

  Shuman was the younger of the two, nice looking, somehow making his poorly matched shirt, tie, and sport coat seem endearing. Our friendship had soured because of what had happened here in January, and I hadn’t talked to him since.

  He still didn’t look like he was ready to make up and play nice.

  “So, it’s déjà vu all over again, huh, Miss Randolph?” Detective Madison said, hiking up his trousers. He gave me a snarky smile and jerked his chin toward the Mercedes. “You kill this one, too?”

  “You really should think about retiring,” I told him.

  Shuman walked over, pulling a little notebook from the pocket of his sport coat.

  “What can you tell me about this?” he asked.

  No hi-how-are-you, no sorry-for-the-way-things-turned-out, no thanks-for-getting-me-laid-with-the-awesome-giftyou-recommended-for-my-girlfriend. Nothing. Just business.

  Jack Webb would have been proud.

  I gave him the rundown: It was Ada’s car; I’d borrowed it; I’d driven here to pick up the clothing; I’d found the body.

  Shuman made notes, never once looking at me.

  “Do you know the victim?” he asked.

  “No clue,” I said.

  “Seen her before?”

  I shook my head. “Nope.”

  Shuman snapped his notebook closed. “We’ll talk to you more later. Don’t leave.”

  Since the only car I had access to at the moment had a dead body in it and was crawling with investigators, I had no choice but to do as Shuman said. But I didn’t want to hang around out here. I went inside.

  The store had opened but only a few shoppers were on the sales floor. Mornings were usually slow. Since all the police activity was at the rear of the building and all the sales employees parked out front, nobody in the store seemed to realize what was happening out back. That suited me fine because I didn’t want to talk about it.

  I went into the employee breakroom. It was crowded with tables and chairs, a microwave and refrigerator. The place always smelled like those diet meals that girl, whose name I can never remember but who I hate because she’s lost like sixty pounds or something, ate for lunch. The walls were plastered with posters about our rights as employees, the store’s sales and credit goals, marketing plans, and other stuff Corporate seemed to think we absolutely had to know.

  Nobody was in the room, which was a relief. I didn’t want to run into Rita, the sales clerks’ supervisor.

  I hate Rita.

  Rita hated me, too. I’m okay with that because I actually double-hated her since she and her friend jacked my purse party business idea. Now I triple-hated her because they were doing better than Marcie and me, having huge parties and selling a zillion more bags than we were.

  Rita wasn’t there. I checked the schedule that hung beside the time clock and saw that she was supposed to work this morning. Luckily, I’d missed her.

  The breakroom door opened and in walked Cal. Cal was a complete moron, but like so many others, didn’t know it. He was about forty, slightly balding, and he always dressed in one of three pairs of pants, a white shirt, and ties that didn’t go with anything.

  “Good to have you back with us, Haley,” Cal said. “We’re shorthanded in Juniors, so I need you to—”

  “I’m not working today,” I said, and stepped sideways so he couldn’t see my time card tucked into its slot.

  “Oh?” He leaned right, trying to see the wall of time cards behind me.

  I leaned right with him. He dodged left. So did I.

  “I’m just picking up clothing for a women’s shelter,” I said. “Jeanette knows all about it.”

  It was a partial lie, but so what? Those are the kind I did best.

  “Well, we could still use you in Juniors,” Cal said. “We’re having our biggest sale of the season today, you know, and—”

  Cal’s words turned into blah, blah, blah and I drifted off. Finally, he left.

  My day really needed a boost. I dug through my Coach satchel—luckily, I’d had it with me this whole time, otherwise it might have been hauled away with the car as evidence—and came up with a ten. I fed it into the vending machine, punched the buttons for everything with chocolate in it—just to stay mentally sharp for when the detectives got to me, of course—and sat down at one of the tables. I’d only gotten through a Snickers bar and one package of M&M’s when Jeanette opened the door.

  “The detectives want to see you now,” she said, and disappeared again.

  I followed her to her office.

  Detective Madison had taken the power position in the chair behind Jeanette’s desk and Shuman stood off to the side. Jeanette retreated to the corner. In that dress, she looked like a tropical sunset during a nuclear winter.

  “So,” Madison said, rearing back in the chair, “you want to tell us what happened?”

  That was a trick question. I knew because I’d been questioned by the police before. I’d already explained myself to Shuman and he’
d, of course, passed it all on to Madison. He just wanted me to tell my story again.

  Under other circumstances, I might have hesitated. But not this time. There was absolutely no way Madison could stick me with this murder. I’d simply had the misfortune of driving a car that had a dead body stuffed into the trunk at the airport. I wasn’t worried.

  “Haley, you don’t have to say anything,” Jeanette said.

  Madison looked excited, as if invoking my rights meant I was guilty of something.

  “I’m happy to cooperate,” I said.

  “You’re entitled to have an attorney present,” Jeanette said.

  Jeanette knew I was involved with Ty, the owner of the department store chain of which she hoped to remain employed, though she’d never come right out and said anything. I’m sure she figured it out, though, the night I was leaving for Europe with Ty and he called her at home and explained I wouldn’t be at work for a couple of weeks.

  Now she was just covering her bases. Jeanette wanted to make sure that during my next pillow-talk session with Ty, I told him that she’d been concerned about me during the police interview. Little did she realize that the only thing I was likely to mention was the hideous dress she had on.

  Not that Ty would listen anyway.

  “I don’t need a lawyer,” I said, smiling pleasantly, as any innocent person would. “The car belongs to Ada Cameron. We picked it up at the airport last night after we landed. It had been there for a couple of weeks.”

  Detective Madison just stared. “Go on.”

  I didn’t really see what else there was to explain, except maybe to give them the reason Ada and I hadn’t found the body in the trunk last night at the airport. If we’d had luggage instead of just a small carry-on, we’d have made the discovery there.

  I guess I didn’t speak fast enough for Madison because he said, “And how did you end up here at the store with the car this morning?”

  “I dropped Ada off at home last night after we left the airport, so she wouldn’t have to be out so late. I used the car to pick up some clothing Holt’s is donating to charity.”

  “First thing this morning? What was the hurry?” Madison asked.

  “Because I was going shopping.”

  Okay, that sounded kind of lame. So what could I do but give more details?

  “I saw the new Sinful handbag in Elle last night,” I said.

  “Elle?” Madison asked.

  “The fashion magazine,” I told him.

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  Jeez, what’s wrong with him? Wasn’t it obvious?

  “I wanted to get to the mall and find the handbag before they were all sold out,” I told him.

  “Let me be sure I have this straight,” Madison said, shifting in his chair. “You got up early after a grueling flight from London. First thing you wanted to do was go to the mall. You could have waited for Mrs. Cameron to show up, but you didn’t. You could have taken your own car to pick up the charity donation, but you didn’t. And all of this was because of some handbag?”

  When he said it like that, it did sound kind of weird, but it was the truth.

  “Yes, that’s right,” I told him.

  Everybody was staring at me now. Shuman, Madison, even Jeanette. I started to get a yucky feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  “Did you get a look at the victim in the trunk?” Madison asked.

  I was kind of relieved he’d changed direction in his questioning. Guess he understood, after all.

  “I saw her,” I said.

  “Recognize her?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “You’ve never seen her before,” Madison said, making it a statement, rather than a question.

  I got the yucky feeling again.

  “I have no idea who she is,” I said.

  “None at all?”

  Maybe I should stop talking now.

  “Look,” I said, “I don’t know anything more—”

  “Well, as it turns out, we know lots more to talk about,” Detective Madison said, and suddenly I knew exactly what the canary must have felt like the second the cat opened its mouth.

  Madison leaned closer. “We talked to Ada Cameron. She’s telling a different story. She says that she never gave her permission for you to take her car anywhere, except to your apartment. She didn’t ask you to pick up the clothing for the shelter. In fact, she told you to stay home, she’d get the car from you at eleven this morning.”

  “Well, yeah, but I told you I wanted to go to the mall and get that—”

  “Handbag. Yeah, right,” Madison said and grunted. “And when you got to the store, you didn’t park out front where you usually park, did you? You circled around to the back. You parked as far from the building as you could, without making it look obvious. And when you got out of the car, you looked around to see if anyone had seen you, didn’t you?”

  “But that was—”

  “We have witnesses,” Madison said. “Don’t lie.”

  “I’m not lying!”

  “The assistant store manager said he saw you in the stock room, but you ran off, like you didn’t want him to see you and know that you were in the store,” Madison said.

  “I didn’t want him to—”

  “And that kid back in men’s wear. What’s his name?” Madison asked, glancing over his shoulder.

  “Troy,” Shuman said, checking his notes.

  “Yeah, Troy. He told us you practically ran over him trying to get out of the store.”

  I was not getting into the whole porn star thing with Madison. Not with Jeanette standing there.

  “And about the victim?” Detective Madison gestured to Shuman.

  “Tiffany Markham,” he replied.

  “Are you still claiming you don’t know her?” Madison asked.

  “I don’t know anybody named Tif—”

  Oh God.

  The little yucky feeling in the pit of my stomach doubled in size.

  “Tiffany Markham,” Madison said. “She’s the co-owner of a purse party business, along with that woman Rita who works right here in the store. Your archrival in the purse party business. The person who’s booking bigger parties than you. The person who’s selling more bags than you. The person who’s trying to ruin you. That’s who Tiffany Markham is. Isn’t she? Isn’t she?”

  Oh, crap.

  CHAPTER 3

  There was nothing left to do but go shopping. And nothing less than finding that Sinful handbag could possibly improve my mood.

  After Detective Madison had finished accusing me of murder—again—at Holt’s this morning, I’d left. Nobody tried to stop me, which was good, since that meant I wasn’t under arrest or anything.

  But no one had tried to comfort me either. Jeanette definitely kept her distance, and Detective Shuman hadn’t spoken a word. After what happened a few weeks ago—the murder and all that other stuff—I figured Shuman and I would be friendly even if we weren’t friends anymore. Guess he had other ideas.

  A woman on the morning replenishment team gave me a ride to my apartment complex. I jumped into my Honda and headed out.

  As I cruised down the 405 freeway, Ty flashed into my mind. He knew about the murder by now. Someone from Holt’s—probably that bitch Sarah Covington—had called him.

  I hate Sarah Covington.

  She was Holt’s vice president of marketing, made a ton of money, and dressed in great clothes with fabulous handbags. She got a Louis Vuitton organizer before I did, which alone was reason to hate her.

  With some of the lame-ass marketing ideas she came up with, I didn’t know how she kept her job, except that Ty thought she could do no wrong. He acted like the universe rotated around her. I didn’t get it.

  I passed an SUV, then cut off a Beemer and sped up, more anxious than ever to complete my Sinful quest.

  How would Ty react to this whole thing? He loved his grandmother. What would he say when he found out I’d embroiled her
in a murder investigation?

  Wait a minute, I realized as I cut across two lanes of traffic. He was my boyfriend now. Officially, since we’d finally slept together. He couldn’t be upset with me. He was obligated to be supportive, wasn’t he? I mean, that’s what boyfriends did, right?

  Any minute now my cell phone would ring and it would be Ty, worried about me.

  The scene played out in my mind. Him frantic, ready to abandon the crucial negotiations for Holt’s International, and jet home immediately to be at my side and comfort me during this tragedy. Then me telling him no, that I couldn’t let him walk out on the multi-billion-dollar deal just for me—that’s the kind of supportive, understanding girlfriend I am. Then Ty, overwhelmed with glee, thrilled beyond belief that he was lucky enough to have a fabulous girlfriend like me.

  I exited the freeway and drove to the Beverly Center, one of L.A.’s best shopping centers. As I took the escalator up from the parking garage, my cell phone rang.

  I yanked it from my pocket, sure it was Ty. But it was my mom, according to the readout on the caller I.D. screen. It was the sixth time she’d called today.

  Believe me, it was not because she missed me and wanted me to come over so we could chat and do each other’s nails.

  Obviously, the ex-beauty queen cult she belonged to had gone global, bounced satellite signals off of their tiaras, and learned that I was back from Europe. I hadn’t taken any of Mom’s calls so far, and I didn’t intend to now. I let it go to voicemail and tucked my phone away again.

  One thing I knew for sure was that I didn’t have to worry about Ada being upset with me over this whole mess. We’d hit it off right from the start and, after our intense bonding experience shopping together in Europe, I knew she’d be totally cool with what happened. Even if she ended up having to buy a new Mercedes.

  I headed for Nordstrom and immediately picked up the scent of the handbag department. My heart rate increased and I got a really great rush of adrenaline. Oh my God. The Sinful purse was here—I just knew it.

  I dashed through the aisles, my gaze bouncing from display case to display case. Gorgeous handbags on my left, my right, behind and in front of me. But where was the Sinful bag?