I spotted a sales clerk at the register just finishing up with a customer. She was short and wide, and had on one of those boxy suits women over fifty thought they were supposed to wear. I rushed over.
“Where are the Sinful bags?” I asked, my breath coming in short little pants.
The clerk lowered her head and peered up at me over the top of her half-glasses.
“I just sold our last one,” she said, and nodded toward the woman she’d just waited on.
I gasped and whirled toward the customer walking merrily along, swinging a shopping bag on her arm.
“No…,” I moaned. I couldn’t have missed the last bag—not by a couple of minutes.
I was in no mood.
Maybe I could buy it from her. Or just take it. She was little, one of those petite people who were always taking up valuable floor space in stores with their tiny clothes, who ought to be rounded up and marooned on a deserted island in the Pacific somewhere. And she was old, too. She’d probably snap like a day-old bread stick if I—
“I could order you one,” the clerk offered.
I whipped back around, ready to snap her in half—which I think she realized because she backed up a few steps—and tried to control myself.
Where was Marcie when I needed her? She could always talk me down in situations like this.
I drew in a calming breath and said, “Yes, that would be nice. Order me one. I’d like to pick it up tomorrow.”
The clerk backed up another few steps and frowned. “I’m afraid I can’t get it here that quickly. More like eight to ten weeks.”
“Weeks?”
She backed up a little farther. “It’s a very popular bag. The it bag of the season. Everybody wants one.”
“Ten weeks?”
“Or less,” she offered, and reached for the telephone.
I was pretty sure she was calling security and I couldn’t face yet another run-in with the law today—plus my mother would never forgive me if I was banned for life from Nordstrom—so I just said, “Never mind. I’ll keep looking.”
I was halfway to the door, my mind zipping through a list of stores to check out, when somebody called my name. I turned and saw a young woman in a great outfit, waving. She was about my age, with dark hair.
“Haley, hi, it’s me,” she said, walking over. “Remember? Last fall at Holt’s? I had a job interview with a recording company and you picked out the only fabulous outfit ever to grace their racks?”
“Oh my God! Jen!”
I remembered her immediately. She’d been saddled with a gift card from Holt’s, of all places, to buy funky, hip clothes to wear to her interview. I’d put together a killer outfit for her. I hadn’t seen her since that night.
We hugged, and I said, “Wow, you look great! I guess you got the job?”
“It’s a blast,” she said, and her smile—plus the terrific clothes she had on—told me that she’d hit the job lotto. “Only it’s not ‘Jen’ anymore. Everybody at the label calls me Jay Jax. You know, ‘Jay’ because it’s my first initial and ‘Jax’ because it’s part of my last name. Cool, huh?”
“Yeah, really cool,” I said.
“So what are you doing these days?” she asked.
I didn’t know where to start, exactly. Should I tell her that I was nearly penniless now because I’d spent my savings—translation, rent money—shopping in Europe? That I still had the crappy job at Holt’s? That I was a college student, barely able to stay awake in two boring classes? Or that I was, once again, a murder suspect?
I’ve really got to get a grip on my life.
“Just got back from Europe,” I said, and waved my hand like it was no big thing. Then, because I was anxious to change the subject, I nodded toward the handbag department. “I’m here for a Sinful bag.”
Jen’s—Jay Jax’s—face lit up. “Don’t you love that bag? I got mine yesterday.”
She had a Sinful bag and a cool new name, and I didn’t?
I hate my life.
“There’s a big party coming up. You have to come,” Jay Jax said.
A party? My mood improved immediately.
“The record label is launching a new artist. It’s going to be fantastic. Everybody will be there. I’ll text you the details.”
We exchanged phone numbers and she said, “Got to run. I’m here to buy a gift for the boss’s wife—and both of his girlfriends. See you, Haley!”
I watched her disappear and the image of the Sinful bag grew larger in my mind until it shut out everyone and everything else. I needed that bag, and I needed to take it to that record label’s party. I absolutely had to have it. And I’d get it. Somehow.
“Tell me everything. I have to hear everything,” Marcie declared as she rushed into my apartment.
I’d called her during a mocha frappuccino break from my Sinful search today and she’d promised to come over right after work.
Marcie had been my best friend since forever. She was a petite, blue-eyed blonde, with a lot more brains than most blondes get credit for.
I hadn’t seen her in weeks but we’d e-mailed a few times. She’d kept me up to date on things, as a best friend would, including a choice bit of info about one of Mom’s friends, Cynthia Gray.
Cynthia, it seems, blamed me—wrongly—for her daughter’s death in January and had left a threatening note on my door. Marcie knew this because, according to the store surveillance tapes posted on YouTube, Cynthia had screamed her confession over and over in the lingerie department of Macy’s during the spring preview event for the bra and panty club, while she’d chased a model wearing a thong and a red lace demi-cup bra—thus the interest of YouTube viewers—off of the runway, through the aisles to the men’s department, where they both landed in unflattering positions atop a display of Jockey briefs.
Nobody, it seemed, knew exactly what had set Cynthia off, but speculation was that the model had looked a little like her daughter. Rumor had it that Cynthia was now in “seclusion” recovering from “exhaustion,” which really meant that her beleaguered husband had shipped her off to rehab somewhere.
I was relieved to know that it was Cynthia who’d left the threatening note. I’d been afraid it had been Kirk Keegan, yet another person who—wrongly—blamed me for their troubles.
I get that a lot.
Kirk was an attorney I’d known back in my other life last fall when I’d worked for the Pike Warner law firm. He’d threatened to kill me because I hadn’t fallen for one of his schemes, then disappeared. Nobody had seen or heard from him in months. Still, he was out there, somewhere.
I got a couple of Coronas from the fridge along with a box of Ritz crackers and the Cheez Whiz—nothing says special occasion like canned, processed cheese—and brought them into my living room. I’d laid in a lot of supplies in anticipation of Marcie’s visit. We had two weeks and two continents to catch up on. This could be an all-nighter.
“So, how was it?” Marcie asked, her eyes wide as we settled onto opposite ends of the sofa.
“London was beautiful,” I said, “and so was—”
“I’m not talking about sightseeing,” Marcie said. “How was it with Ty? You did sleep with him, didn’t you?”
She looked completely mystified that I hadn’t opened the conversation with details about Ty. Not that I blamed her. After all, he and I had waited months to finally sleep together.
Honestly, I’d hoped to put off this topic for a while, but I could see by the look on Marcie’s face that she was having none of it.
“Well, yeah,” I said.
Marcie leaned closer and her eyes got wider. “So what was it like?”
“Uh…good. It was…good.”
Marcie gasped. “Oh my God. It was awful, wasn’t it?”
“No, it wasn’t awful…exactly. It was…great. Really—”
“Ty’s terrible in bed!” she exclaimed, looking stricken.
“He’s not terrible,” I insisted.
“Something went wro
ng. What was it?”
I couldn’t hold back. Not with Marcie.
“He’s a talker,” I admitted.
Marcie frowned. “During?”
“After.”
“Oh, no…” Marcie slumped back on the couch, shaking her head.
I didn’t like a lot of talking—which was why I usually liked to leave before they woke up—but I could tolerate a little chatting. Ty took it to a whole different level.
“Not the how-was-it quiz, I hope?” Marcie asked, still frowning.
I have no patience for a guy who asks the did-you-like-it, was-it-the-best, and everything short of would-you-recommend-me-to-a-friend questions. I expect men to know what they’re doing, to bring their A-game. I’m not giving lessons.
“Politics,” I said. “The economy. Global commerce. Stuff like that.”
Marcie brightened a little. “Did you pick up any good stock tips?”
“I drifted off,” I told her. “The first couple of times he yammered on about that boring stuff, I figured it was no big deal. But he kept doing it.”
We both just sat there for a minute, Marcie looking disappointed.
“When is Ty coming home?” she asked.
“In a few days.”
“You have to tell him,” Marcie said.
She was right—Marcie was almost always right—but telling Ty he was boring me out of my mind in bed wouldn’t be easy. Our relationship had progressed at glacial speed. I didn’t want to set us back.
“You have to tell him,” Marcie said again.
“Yeah, I know. And I will.”
She seemed satisfied with that. “So what did you buy?”
“Tons of the coolest stuff,” I said, feeling excited now.
“Let’s see it,” Marcie said, bouncing on the sofa.
“I had it FedEx’d to Evelyn’s house,” I told her. “I’ll pick it up tomorrow.”
I’d met Evelyn Croft last fall when I started working at Holt’s. She was fortyish and, I’m sure, perpetually mistaken for a librarian or middle school teacher. Evelyn had been injured in what she now referred to as “the incident” caused by “that certain someone” at Holt’s last fall and, as a result, didn’t work now or come out of her house.
I’d e-mailed her from Europe asking if I could have my purchases delivered to her house. She was the only person I knew who was totally reliable, at home all day, and unlikely to open my packages and try on my clothes.
After some cajoling, Evelyn agreed to accept delivery as long as she could clearly see the FedEx truck parked in front of her house; could identify the FedEx uniform through her peephole; and the driver would wait while she turned off the alarms and opened the locks and chains on her front door, a process that could be quite lengthy.
Marcie finished off her Corona. “I’ve got two people interested in having a purse party.”
We’d started our purse party business last fall and we both loved it since we were, after all, self-professed handbag whores. It was a great way to make extra cash, plus the parties were always tons of fun.
“Business might be picking up,” I told her, then explained how I’d discovered the body of Tiffany Markham in the trunk of Ada’s Mercedes.
“That’s awful,” Marcie said.
Yes, it was awful. Detective Madison had been right about one thing: Tiffany and Rita had been our chief rivals in the purse party business. I’d wanted to leave them in our dust with superior sales, but not like this.
Marcie gasped. “Does Rita know you’re involved?”
I’d thought about that. Rita already hated me, and if she found out I was connected—even innocently—to her friend’s death, she’d make things harder on me at work.
Jeez, I really hoped she didn’t know I was involved.
“I just happened to find Tiffany’s body,” I said.
“So what’s Tiffany’s connection with Ada?” Marcie asked. “Why would her body have been stuffed into Ada’s car at the airport?”
“Beats me,” I said, and tipped up my Corona. “All I know is that Detective Madison has twisted the facts around and is convinced I murdered Tiffany.”
“Wow,” Marcie mumbled and sat back on the sofa. “I guess you’d better find out what really happened.”
I’d solved a number of crimes in the past few months—I have mad Scooby Doo skills—and it looked as if I might have to do it again.
I nodded. “I guess I should.”
CHAPTER 4
Cal had wasted no time in putting me back on the schedule at Holt’s. He’d gone so far as to call my cell phone and leave a message—which was way annoying because I still hadn’t gotten a call from Ty—stating that I was expected back at work for my usual evening shift. This didn’t suit me, really, but I needed the money.
When I walked into the breakroom, a line of employees waited at the time clock. Shopping in Europe and sex with Ty seemed like a really long time ago.
“Hey, girl!” Bella called when she spotted me.
Bella—ebony to my ivory—was tall and thin, and about my age. She worked at Holt’s to save money for beauty school and, in the meantime, practiced on her own hair. Tonight she seemed to be in what I could only guess was a saucer phase. She’d fashioned her hair into what looked like a satellite dish atop her head.
We hugged and I stored my bag—a really great Kate Spade tote—in my locker and got in line behind Bella to wait, along with everyone else, for a few more minutes of our lives to tick by.
“Where you been, girl?” Bella asked.
“Out of town,” I said, not wanting to get into the whole Ty thing with her. “Family situation.”
“Lucky you,” Bella said, nodding toward the work schedule posted by the time clock. “Rita’s not here for your first night back.”
I glanced at the schedule and saw that Rita was supposed to work tonight, but a red line had been drawn through her name. I wondered if she was in mourning over the death of Tiffany, her friend and business partner. Or if maybe she was busy attempting to destroy the purse party books and drain the bank account before Tiffany’s relatives found out about it.
I doubted Rita was that smart.
The line moved forward as we all fed our cards into the time clock and then, instead of heading out to the sales floor, everyone just stood around the breakroom. Shannon, who was the lead in the housewares department, came through the door.
I was surprised to see Shannon because, last I heard, she was off work on a totally bogus disability claim—I knew that for a fact. Shannon and Rita were good friends. They even dressed alike and, believe me, if they wore Holt’s clothing, it would be an upgrade.
Shannon disliked me for no good reason, except that Rita didn’t like me—unless, of course, she still held a grudge because of that vacuum cleaner incident last fall.
“Spread out, people, spread out,” Shannon called, waving at us.
I had no idea what was happening so I moved along with everyone else, taking up my customary position at the rear of any gathering.
“What’s going on?” I asked Bella.
“No talking,” Shannon said.
Bella rolled her eyes and lowered her voice. “Some new b.s. Corporate came up with. We do stretches before every shift. Supposed to make us more attentive, improve our thinking. Avoid accidents.”
Jeez, you’re out of the loop for a few weeks and look what happens.
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“No talking!” Shannon called, glaring at me.
“We do this before every shift?” I asked Bella.
She shrugged. “What the hell? It keeps us off the sales floor for five extra minutes.”
Immediately I saw the benefit of Holt’s new program, and eagerly joined in as Shannon led the group through a series of neck and shoulder rolls, arm and calf stretches. I felt myself relax, which was kind of nice.
Shannon pointed to a chart hanging on the wall near the refrigerator. It was one of those big thermometers. Red
was filled in up to the 88 percent line, which, I guessed, was good.
“We’re doing great in this contest so far, but we need to do better,” Shannon said, then jerked her thumb toward the breakroom door. “So get out there and watch out for that secret shopper. Believe me, none of you wants to screw that up and be the reason the rest of us don’t get our prizes.”
Shannon glared directly at me when she said that. I felt myself tense up again.
“What’s that all about?” I asked Bella as we moved along with the other employees onto the sales floor.
“More b.s. from Corporate,” Bella said, sounding weary. “They got employees pretending to be shoppers coming to the stores, seeing how we’re handling customer service. This secret shopper gives us points if we do good, and takes away points if we do bad.”
“So if I got that bitch Shannon in a headlock they’d count off for that?” I asked.
“Not in my book,” Bella said. “Anyway, it’s supposed to be some sort of contest. The employees get gifts, depending on how many points we accumulate. Supposed to make us work as a team, some b.s. like that.”
This sounded like one of the dumb-ass schemes Sarah Covington would come up with, and call Ty a couple dozen times to discuss.
Somebody needed to take her out.
“Haley,” Shannon called from behind me.
I ignored her and kept walking. I’m pretty tall—five-foot-nine—and have long legs, so I can stride away really quickly with almost no effort, a skill that has come in very handy since I got this job at Holt’s.
“Haley!” Shannon trotted up next to me, panting slightly. She thrust a pamphlet at me. “Here. Read this. It’s our new customer service procedures. And you’d better do exactly what it says. I want us to win the flat screens Holt’s is giving away.”
I took the pamphlet, shoved it into my pocket while staring directly into her face, and walked away.
Grace was in the customer service booth at the back of the store—my assigned corner of retail purgatory tonight—and I was glad to see her. We’d worked the booth together a lot and had come up with a great system for handling customers.
I sincerely doubted our methods were contained anywhere in the Holt’s pamphlet riding around in my back pocket.
Dorothy Howell Page 3