Grace was a little younger than me, totally cool, and she always wore her hair spiked up. I saw that she’d colored it again, this time making it a deep shade of pink. She really pulled it off.
“You’re back,” she said, as I punched in the code on the keypad that allowed entrance to the customer service booth.
I pulled the pamphlet out of my pocket.
“What’s this all about?” I asked.
“Some woman from the corporate office came to the store and gave a long presentation on it,” Grace said.
I wondered if it was Sarah Covington and if she had noticed that I wasn’t in the training session, and figured that I was in Europe with Ty. That would be way cool.
“They want all of the employees to approach customers on the sales floor and ask if we can help them with anything,” Grace said, sorting through a pile of clothing on the counter.
“What?”
“Yeah,” Grace said, and pointed to the pamphlet. “There’s a whole list of things we’re supposed to say, and even a procedure for the order we say them in.”
A customer came to the counter. I ignored her and glanced over the pamphlet. Listed there was a procedure for approaching, addressing, and assisting customers which ultimately, according to the pamphlet, would result in increased sales.
“We’re supposed to ask a ‘lifestyle question’? What’s a lifestyle question?” I asked.
Grace glanced back as she approached the customer at the counter and shrugged. “Ask them about their life. Get them talking or something.”
Now I knew this was definitely a program that had sprung from the insipid mind of Sarah Covington. I dropped the pamphlet into the trash can.
“I’ll be back,” Grace said, when she finished with the customer. She left the customer service booth.
I headed over to the inventory computer and scrolled through the list of merchandise. Not because I had any interest in the stock that had arrived during my two week absence, but because I could look at the screen and appear to be working while my thoughts drifted off somewhere else.
“Excuse me,” a woman called.
I ignored her with practiced ease since it was my own personal policy to have a customer try to get my attention a minimum of two times—just to make sure they really needed me for something, of course.
“Excuse me?” she called again. “Ma’am?”
Her ma’am didn’t come out sounding like bitch, which immediately caused me to perk up. Her accent was weird, too. Obviously, she wasn’t from around here.
I turned and saw her standing at the counter. Short, petite, mid-thirties probably, with brown hair artfully styled. She looked classy in a Michael Kors suit and carried a Fendi bag.
What the heck was she doing in Holt’s?
Then it occurred to me: maybe she was one of those secret shoppers. Oh my God. That had to be who she was. I thought the whole thing was pretty lame, but I sure could use a new flat screen for my apartment.
“Could I trouble you for a bit of information, please?” she asked.
Damn. Why hadn’t I read that pamphlet?
Never mind. Too late for that now. I’d just have to wing it.
I recognized her accent then. Some place in the South—I knew that because Dad’s relatives lived there, though my mom refused to acknowledge them. Yet this woman didn’t look like “the Clampetts,” as my mother referred to her in-laws. She looked cultured and refined.
My mind scrambled to formulate a lifestyle question. Jeez, how hard could it be?
Nothing came to me.
Then I decided I could simply offer her directions to the nearest Neiman Marcus, fearing she might suffer some sort of mental impairment resulting from overexposure to Holt’s clothing line. I mean, really, what better customer service than that could anybody ask for?
“My name is Virginia Foster,” she said, “and I’m hoping to speak with a woman named Rita. I’m sorry, but I don’t know her last name. Is she, by any chance, on duty tonight?”
Up close now, I could see that she looked worn down, more weary than tired. Rita had that effect on people. And, it seemed, this woman was not the Holt’s secret shopper.
“She’s not working tonight,” I said.
Virginia’s shoulders slumped and she sighed heavily.
In a complete departure from my personal policy formed from months of working at Holt’s, I said, “Is there something I can help you with?”
Really, I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was her Fendi bag.
Virginia pulled herself up a little. “That’s so kind of you. Yes, I’d really appreciate your help. I’m just not sure what to do. You see, I’ve just arrived from Charleston. A good friend of mine—my dearest friend, really—passed away quite suddenly and I need to talk to someone about it.”
A cold chill zapped me.
“Tiffany?” I asked.
“You know Tiffany?” Virginia asked, looking relieved.
I saw no need to get into the whole I-found-her-in-my-trunk thing with her, or that I hadn’t recognized her dead, so I simply said, “Yes, I met her once. She gave purse parties with Rita.”
“Tiffany mentioned Rita a few times,” Virginia said and looked a bit bewildered. “The police called Tiffany’s family and told them about her…murder. I rushed right out. I dropped off my bags at the Hyatt and came here as quickly as I could. I don’t know anyone to talk to but Rita and now she’s not here, and…”
“Hang on a second,” I told her.
Virginia looked as if she was about to cry, or maybe scream, so I abandoned the customer service booth—Grace would be back soon and if a customer had to wait, oh well—and took her into the employee breakroom. I got her a soda from the vending machine—they really should stock beer for occasions like this—and we sat at one of the tables. Luckily, we had the place to ourselves.
“So you and Tiffany were friends?” I asked.
This seemed weird to me because the one time I’d met Tiffany, she’d had on jeweled Wal-Mart sandals and a black T-shirt with “workin’ it” spelled out in rhinestones across the front. Hardly the sort of person I’d expect to be friends with someone who looked as dignified as Virginia.
“Oh, yes, we were the best of friends,” Virginia said, holding the soda can with both hands. “I hadn’t seen her in a while, but we stayed in touch. She moved here to California a few months ago. The family didn’t understand. But that was Tiffany, you know, always determined to do things her own way.”
I felt like I should say something nice about Tiffany, but couldn’t think of anything. After all, she, along with Rita, had tried to put Marcie and me out of business.
Finally, I came up with, “I’m sure this is hard on her family.”
Virginia closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head. “Such tragedy. Goodness, that family has suffered through so much lately.”
Virginia dug through her Fendi bag and pulled out a Louis Vuitton wallet—I was instantly jealous—and showed me a studio portrait of eight adults. A mom and dad in their sixties, it appeared, surrounded by what were probably their grown children and spouses. Everyone wore black suits. It was the sort of portrait that might hang over a fire-place in an old family home somewhere. Everyone looked elegant and successful.
Virginia turned the picture around and stared down at it, slowly shaking her head. “It’s hard to believe Tiffany is really gone now.”
I sat up a little straighter in my chair. “Tiffany is in this picture?” I asked.
“Yes, of course.” Virginia turned the photo my way once more and pointed. “That’s her right there.”
I leaned forward and managed not to let my mouth drop open. The woman Virginia indicated looked nothing like the Tiffany I had met. The Tiffany I knew wore her hair in a bleached-out bob and dressed in whatever she could find on the Old Navy clearance rack. This Tiffany had dark hair and looked stunning in Chanel. I hardly recognized her.
Jeez, what had happened to this woman?
“Tiffany’s daddy is quite beside himself,” Virginia said. “He’s not sure the law firm can go on without her.”
“Tiffany was a lawyer?” I asked, and felt my eyes widen to the size of a Prada tote.
“One of the oldest, most respected firms in Charleston,” she said.
Virginia sat there for a moment, as if gathering her strength. I guess Tiffany’s death had really hit her hard.
“Did Tiffany mention her brother-in-law to you?” she asked.
I’d told her that I’d only met Tiffany once, so it surprised me that Virginia thought we’d have had an in-depth conversation about families. But people didn’t always pay attention—I knew that from personal experience, of course—and could react really weird when someone died.
“Ed Buckley, her sister’s husband,” Virginia said. She leaned toward me as if expecting to hear some big piece of news. “Did Tiffany say anything about him?”
The only thing I remembered clearly about my one-time meeting with Tiffany was how she’d eyed my Marc Jacobs bag. At the time I figured she didn’t know what it was. Now I knew different.
“Ed was killed in a car crash last year,” Virginia said, as if that explained something.
“No,” I said. “She didn’t mention him.”
Virginia looked disappointed—I had no clue why—and slumped back in her chair.
“I don’t know how I’m going to explain things to her family,” Virginia said, shaking her head.
I didn’t know what the answers were either, but I knew where to start looking for them.
CHAPTER 5
It surprised me that Detective Shuman agreed to meet me. After all, I was sure he knew what I wanted—info on Tiffany’s murder—and I expected he was in no mood to give anything away. Plus, he was still mad at me over the last time somebody was murdered at Holt’s.
But here I was, sitting at an umbrella table in front of my favorite Starbucks, sipping my favorite frappuccino, waiting for my favorite homicide detective to show up. I’d called him this morning when I’d rolled out of bed and we’d set a meet time for noon. He was late but I figured I’d give him awhile longer—this was, after all, L.A.
The double blast of caffeine and chocolate in my mocha frappuccino had me buzzing pretty good, making it tough to sit still, so I pulled out my cell phone. I hadn’t heard from Ada since the night we’d landed at LAX and I’d dropped her off at her house in Bel Air, which surprised me a little, since I’d called her twice already.
I punched in her number—she was on my speed dial because we were BFFs now—and her housekeeper picked up. She told me—for the third time—that Ada was unavailable. I left a message and hung up.
Huh. I wondered what was up with Ada. Was she sick? She must have been, since she hadn’t called me back. I mean, what other reason could there have been?
I could ask Ty, but I hadn’t heard from him, either. He was rushing to finish things up in London so he could come home tomorrow but, jeez, under the circumstances—I know that awful Sarah Covington had risked breaking a nail to call him immediately upon hearing about Tiffany’s murder—you’d think he’d call me.
I dropped my phone into my purse—a great looking Dooney & Bourke barrel bag. My stomach felt a little queasy at the thought of sleeping with Ty again. Not the act itself. Afterwards, when he talked about the economy and whatever else he’d yammered on about when we were supposed to be cuddling.
Yet another unpleasant thought blasted through my brain: my mom. So far I’d managed to return all her calls during her prescheduled hair, nail, and spa appointments, so I hadn’t actually had to talk to her. My luck wouldn’t hold forever. Sooner or later, I’d have to explain my trip to Europe with Ty.
At least I didn’t have to worry that she would show up unannounced on my doorstep; I’m not sure Mom knew where I lived.
I debated whether to wait any longer for Shuman—which would require a second frappuccino, of course—when he appeared beside my table. I hadn’t even seen him drive up. Good thing I’m not hoping for a career with the CIA or something.
The sunlight sparkled in his brown hair but that was about the only thing warm about him. He wasn’t glad to see me, which I expected, but it still bothered me.
“Let me get you a coffee,” I said, rising from my chair.
“I can’t stay,” he said, not bothering to sit down. “I just came to tell you that I don’t know anything about Tiffany Markham’s death, and I’m never going to know anything, so don’t call me again.”
Shuman walked away.
I stood there for a few seconds, stunned. Okay, I figured he would be upset with me, but this was way off the scale. I hurried after him.
“Wait! Shuman, hang on!” I called.
He stopped quickly and turned back. He was puffed up like men get when they’re mad: straight shoulders, expanded chest, hard jaw line—which was way hot.
“Look, I get it,” I said. “You’re mad because you think I withheld information from you the last time you suspected me of murdering somebody.”
“Because you did withhold information,” he said, punching the air between us with his finger.
“Yeah, okay, I did that,” I admitted. “I had reasons, though, good reasons. Reasons you’d agree with, if you weren’t a cop.”
“Well, I am a cop.”
We stood staring at each other for a minute, sort of like back in January when we’d both realized things would never be the same between us.
I didn’t like the feeling then or now.
“Look,” I said. “I swear I don’t know anything about Tiffany Markham’s death. I opened the trunk and there she was. Believe me, if I’d known she was dead in the trunk when Ada and I picked up the car at the airport, I’d have said something about it then.”
“Tiffany wasn’t murdered at the airport,” Shuman said. “She was shot in the chest at point blank range in the Holt’s parking lot, and dumped into the trunk.”
Oh my God. No wonder Madison suspected me of her murder.
It hit me as weird that Shuman would divulge this info, especially under the circumstances. But I decided to run with it.
“If that’s true,” I posed, “then how did the body get into the trunk? I had the key with me the whole time. It’s impossible to get into the trunk with—oh, crap.”
“What?” Shuman asked.
I ran the events of that morning through my head again—mentally stopping for a few pleasant seconds at the recollection of the gorgeous Sinful purse I’d been anxious to find—and remembered having the key clutched in my hand as I’d made a mad dash out of the stock room to avoid Cal and Troy.
“I popped the trunk while I was in the stock room,” I said. “Yeah, I remember because I was in a hurry. I hit the remote, then Troy stopped me, and when I got outside to load the boxes of clothing, the trunk was latched—”
Shuman was watching me now, as if reading my thoughts.
“If Troy hadn’t tried to talk to me, I’d have seen who killed Tiffany,” I realized.
“Or been killed yourself,” Shuman said.
I wasn’t all that happy thinking I owed my life to Troy. I saw no need to mention it to him.
“It must have happened fast,” Shuman said. “The killer parked next to the Mercedes, shot Markham, shoved her into the trunk those few minutes it was unlatched, and drove away.”
“What about the security tapes?” I asked.
Shuman shook his head. “The cameras don’t cover the entire parking lot. Only the loading dock area.”
“Lots of people were in the parking lot that morning,” I said.
“Nobody we talked to saw anything,” Shuman told me.
I ran the whole scene through my brain. The garbage truck heading for the Dumpster. A big rig backed into the loading dock. The truck and replenishment teams arriving for work. A couple of guys grabbing a smoke. All the usual stuff. Nothing stuck out in my mind as unusual or important.
“What about
motive?” I asked.
“They’re taking a look at Ada Cameron,” Shuman said.
Ada a murderer? It seemed like a stretch. What possible connection could Ada have to Tiffany Markham, a purse party entrepreneur and ex-attorney from South Carolina?
Shuman and I stood in silence for another few minutes, both of us probably running different scenarios through our minds—although I doubt that fabulous Sinful purse occasionally popped into Shuman’s head, like it did mine.
“Have you spoken to Virginia Foster yet?” I asked. “Tiffany used to be a lawyer back in South Carolina. They were close friends. Virginia came out after the family got word about Tiffany. She’s staying at the Hyatt in Santa Clarita.”
Shuman just looked at me. I couldn’t tell from his expression whether he didn’t already know about Virginia, or he resented my telling him something he already knew. Either way, I didn’t score any points with him.
“If I hear anything at the store, I’ll let you know,” I promised.
“Don’t bother,” Shuman said. “Madison and I aren’t on the case anymore.”
“What?”
“We were ordered to turn everything over to our lieutenant,” Shuman said.
“So whose case is it now?” I asked.
“Beats me,” Shuman said, and walked away.
“It’s me,” I called to the closed door in front of me. “Haley.”
Chains rattled, locks turned, and the security system beeped as I waited for Evelyn Croft to open her front door. I was used to the drill.
After “the incident” at Holt’s last year, as Evelyn called it, she’d recovered from her physical injuries pretty quickly, but showed no sign of getting over the emotional ones. Still, all these months later, she wouldn’t come out of her house.
The door opened a couple of inches and Evelyn’s face appeared through the crack. I forced a big smile.
“It’s me,” I said again.
Evelyn looked past me and, seeing no one else, yanked open the door. On cue, I rushed inside and she slammed it closed again, then secured it at a frantic pace
Dorothy Howell Page 4