“Well, Haley,” Evelyn said, wringing her fingers. “It’s so good to see you.”
Today, she wore a khaki skirt, white sneakers, and a blue print blouse. Her hair and makeup were done. If Evelyn ever went out in public, she could easily be mistaken for a minister’s wife.
“Let me get us some refreshments,” Evelyn said, heading for the kitchen.
I took my usual spot on the sofa in the living room and noted that the pink and mint florals that covered every possible inch of the room had been replaced by blue and yellow florals. A few minutes later, Evelyn came in with a tray of her much dreaded tea and cookies.
“You got new furniture?” I asked.
“Slip covers,” Evelyn said. “I made them myself.”
I took another look at the sofa, love seat, and chair. They really looked great.
“You sewed them?” I asked.
“I love to sew,” Evelyn said, and passed me a cup. “How are your classes?”
“Great,” I said.
Really, my classes were awful. I hated them. In health we were studying suicide—which, at this point in the semester, didn’t seem like a bad idea. In English we took a vocabulary test where I scored in the “impoverished” range and that made me feel so…so…well, never mind that now. The point was that I couldn’t tell Evelyn any of those things. She had enough problems of her own.
I bit into one of the dry, brittle cookies Evelyn always served—I’d bring my own Oreos but it might hurt her feelings—while she talked. Even though she didn’t get out, she watched TV news, read all sorts of newspapers and magazines, and surfed the Net for the latest local, national, and world events.
Most of the time, I didn’t know what she was talking about.
But today I paid attention, anxious to learn if she’d heard anything about Tiffany Markham’s murder. She didn’t mention it. Hopefully, that meant the media didn’t think it was a big enough story to cover, which would make my life a little easier.
By the time I’d choked down three cookies—I’d taken an extra one just to be polite, of course—and finished my tea, Evelyn’s chatter had started to run down.
“Are you ready for your packages?” she asked, smiling like it was Christmas morning.
“Heck, yeah,” I said.
I followed her down the hallway and into a bedroom she used for an office. It held an oak desk and sunny yellow curtains; blue flowers were everywhere. The room was immaculate and serene, like Evelyn herself.
In the corner sat a carefully stacked pyramid of FedEx boxes, my purchases I’d had shipped to her from Europe for safekeeping.
“Wow, I don’t remember buying this much,” I said.
I knew I’d spent my rent money—which was bad, I know—and now I vaguely recalled whipping out a credit card once. Okay, maybe it was more than once.
But, jeez, what was I supposed to do? Look at all of those fabulous fashions all over Europe and not buy them? I mean, really, this was my first trip with Ty. I owed it to myself to buy things to remember it by. Right?
“I’ll bet you have some lovely things in here,” Evelyn said, looking sort of dreamy.
I snapped back to reality, seeing the look on her face. Maybe I’d been wrong to send my packages here. I’d forced Evelyn to vicariously experience my extravagant European spending spree, while she was too afraid to go to the mini-mart down the street.
Not a great feeling.
“You know, Evelyn,” I said, “if you’d like to get out for a while, maybe go shopping or something, I’d be glad to take you.”
“No!” she said, backing away and shaking her head frantically.
“Okay, okay,” I said quickly. “But maybe we could just drive around a little. You don’t have to get out of the car or anything, just sightsee.”
She didn’t look anxious to take me up on my bright idea, but she didn’t bolt in the other direction, either. I figured that was something.
“Just think about it,” I said. “Okay?”
“Well, maybe,” Evelyn said quietly. “Maybe I’ll think about it.”
“I brought you something from Rome,” I said, gesturing to the tower of FedEx boxes. “Want to see?”
She brightened a little. “Yes. Yes, I’d like that.”
Of course, I had no idea which box held the glass bowl I’d bought for her, but it seemed okay with Evelyn that I opened every box and showed her what I’d purchased—except for the lingerie I’d found in Paris that I sincerely hoped would shut Ty up after our lovemaking.
I shoved everything back into the boxes and carried them out to my Honda. I hesitated a moment before I popped the trunk—luckily, there was no dead body inside—loaded everything, and waved good-bye to Evelyn.
I couldn’t see her but I knew she was peeking from behind her closed living room blinds.
An hour of my life ground past in the housewares department as I straightened the displays of place mats. But this mind-numbing chore was okay with me tonight because it required that I sit on the floor where I could hide from customers.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Detective Shuman and the conversation we’d had earlier today. At first, I’d thought it was to my benefit that he and Madison were off the Tiffany Markham murder case. Shuman wasn’t in my corner anymore, and Madison was almost fanatical about proving me guilty of someone’s murder. But now I wasn’t so sure.
Voices from the other side of the aisle intruded on my thoughts. Damn. Customers. I ducked my head and kept straightening place mats.
Who were the new homicide detectives investigating Tiffany’s murder? Shuman didn’t know, which seemed odd to me.
The voices got louder. I scrunched lower and curled myself into a tiny—well, tiny for someone my size—knot, and kept working.
It was possible—very possible—that Madison and Shuman had gotten into some kind of departmental trouble over the last two murders when they’d named me—wrongly—as a suspect. And not only had I been exonerated, but I’d actually solved the cases myself which, I figured, hadn’t done them any favors with their supervisors.
I’d like to think that would cause the new detectives on the case to steer clear of me. But instead, it might make them anxious to prove their colleagues right and come after me with everything they had.
It could go either way.
I shoved the last stack of place mats into the display bin. I needed more info, and I knew of only one way to get it.
Cautiously, I lifted my head and used my peripheral vision—which had expanded another 90 degrees or so since I’d started working at Holt’s—and checked the aisle in both directions for the customers I’d heard earlier. No sign of them. I didn’t hear them, either.
I got to my feet, only to see them two aisles over. I dropped down once more and duck-walked the other way. The entrance to the stock room was only a couple of aisles over. I could make it there easily without being spotted.
I made the turn and lurched to my feet to dash the last few yards when a girl jumped in front of me.
“Halt!” she declared, holding up her palm like a traffic cop. “Halt for Holt’s!”
She looked like she was about twenty years old, with long blond bouncy curls and a perky smile, and had a Holt’s name tag hanging around her neck.
“You’re new, aren’t you? Hi, I’m Christy,” she said.
I didn’t recognize her—and believe me, I would have remembered her—so she must have started working here during my two weeks in Europe.
Who the heck was doing the hiring these days?
“Halt for Holt’s! Oh my God, I just love saying that!” she said and giggled again. “I love working here! You’re going to love it, too!”
“I was just on my way—”
“Oh, no, no, no!” Christy put up her palm once more. “Wow, didn’t they tell you about the Halt for Holt’s program in orientation? It’s so cool! See, it’s like a mini-intervention. If any employee sees another employee not giving top-notch customer service,
we intervene.”
This had to be another of Sarah Covington’s dumb-ass ideas.
I hate her.
“I guess you didn’t realize it, but there were two customers in the other aisle looking for something,” Christy said, still holding her big smile in place. “You should have helped them.”
I was in no mood.
“If you saw them,” I asked, “why didn’t you wait on them yourself?”
Apparently my logic didn’t penetrate her blond hair.
“Okay,” Christy declared, “let’s review the steps in our customer satisfaction program.”
“I don’t want to review the steps.”
“First, greet the customer and make eye contact,” Christy said, still smiling. “Then, ask a lifestyle question.”
“I don’t want to review the steps!”
“Next, point out features and benefits,” Christy went on, ticking off the items on her fingers. “Have the customer try on. Suggest add-ons. Thank them and invite them back. See how this makes for better customer service?”
So far all it had done was make me want to bitch-slap her—just to get her attention, of course.
“Who knows? You might find the secret shopper! You want to win that flat screen, don’t you?” Christy asked, bouncing on her toes. “It’ll be so cool to win a prize—no matter what it is! Even the Holt’s beach towel!”
Holt’s was giving away beach towels? As a prize? That was even more lame than the sewing machine I’d won a few weeks ago.
“Just remember,” Christy said, and held up her palm again. “Halt for Holt’s! And always give great customer service!”
I gave her my why-don’t-you-drop-dead glare but I don’t think that penetrated, either. I hurried around her and went into the stock room.
I loved the stock room. The huge shelving units were filled with fresh, untouched merchandise that had a calming effect on me—I’m sure it’s genetic—and it was a great place to hide out.
I climbed the big concrete and steel staircase to the second floor and wound my way through the aisles to the lingerie section. I didn’t usually like to come back here—long story—but tonight was an exception. I needed some info and I knew only one person I could turn to.
I wouldn’t have to do this if Holt’s allowed us to use our cell phones on the sales floor so, technically, I wasn’t in the wrong here.
I phoned Ben Oliver and was surprised when he picked up. Ben was a reporter for the L.A. Daily Courier.
“Looking to ruin someone’s life—again?” Ben asked.
I’d met him a few weeks ago when I’d given him a smoking-hot tip on a great story—which he didn’t appreciate in the least. Really, I should have been mad at him. But that’s not the way I roll.
“I get off work in an hour,” I said. “Meet me.”
“I’m kind of busy,” he told me.
“I know you’re not on a date,” I said. “You’re sitting there by yourself wearing wrinkled khaki pants and the blue polo shirt you’ve already worn once this week. Right?”
Silence. Then Ben said, “Starbucks. City Walk,” and hung up.
CHAPTER 6
City Walk is a terrific area outside Universal Studios, a wide promenade lined on both sides with great restaurants, bars, and all sorts of shops, a must-see spot on any tourist’s sightseeing list, plus a favorite of L.A. locals. It was a really cool place to hang out, which was why I was surprised that Ben Oliver was there.
I spotted him at a table outside of Starbucks sitting alone—I’d guessed right about the no-date thing—slumped in a chair beneath a giant King Kong cutout, watching the crowd walk past. Ben was in his late twenties with shaggy brown hair. I’d guessed right on the clothing thing, too—rumpled khakis and a tired-looking polo shirt.
I grabbed a mocha frappuccino—just to be sociable, of course—and sat down at the table. Ben sipped his coffee, threw me a quick glance, then stared out at the people walking past once more.
“How are things going at the newspaper?” I asked.
I knew Ben’s editor had it in for him so, really, I figured things weren’t good. But I decided I’d tackle it up front so we could get on to more important things—important to me, that is.
Ben didn’t say anything, just kept sipping his coffee and watching the crowd.
“Heard about any good murders lately?” I asked.
That got a rise out of Ben. He cut his gaze to me.
“No,” he said.
“Would you like to?” I asked, leaning forward a little.
He studied me for a minute, then turned his attention to the passing crowd once more.
“Not interested,” Ben said.
I hated to throw Ada out in front of the bus yet again, but I was getting desperate here. If Ben couldn’t get info on Tiffany’s murder for me, I didn’t have anywhere else to turn.
“It involves rich people, old money, deceit—all the good stuff,” I told him. “The scandal could be huge.”
“Not interested,” Ben said again.
How could somebody not be interested in a huge scandal? It seemed un-American to me. Anyway, this wasn’t working. I had to try something different.
“Not interested, huh?” I said, leaning back. “I guess that means you’re back in your editor’s good graces? Handling all the big stories again?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m covering a big story now,” Ben said.
“Sitting at Starbucks?” I asked.
“I’m undercover,” Ben said.
“Really? Cool,” I said. My gaze darted around trying to pick a big story out of the crowd. I saw nothing. “So what is it?”
“Who got murdered?” Ben asked.
He was deliberately trying to be difficult. I knew that. But I decided to play his game—plus, if I sat here any longer, I’d be forced to get another mocha frappuccino.
“Tiffany Markham. She was some hotshot, old-money lawyer from South Carolina who chucked her life to move to California, then wound up shot to death a few months later,” I said.
“What’s her connection to you?” he asked.
“I found her body at Holt’s,” I said. “In the trunk of my boyfriend’s grandmother’s Mercedes.”
Finally, Ben turned to me, a why-doesn’t-that-surprise-me look on his face.
“It’s not my fault,” I insisted.
“Call Dateline,” Ben said, looking out at the crowd again.
Now it was my turn to be difficult—something I can pull off pretty easily, if I have to.
“So I guess your editor is totally cool with you now and you don’t need a huge story?” I asked.
Ben squirmed a bit, giving me my answer, then said, “I got a tip about espionage and terrorism.”
“From who?” I asked.
I figured that after the way the tip I’d given him had turned out—long story—Ben would have turned and run at the offer of another tip. But I guess reporters feel obligated to check things out—reporters desperate to stop covering Little Miss pageants and chili cook-offs and get back to hard news, anyway.
And I had to agree with Ben. Espionage and terrorism were way cooler than murder.
“So what’s going down?” I asked, looking around.
“This aerospace engineer is involved with a terrorist group and is selling government defense secrets overseas,” Ben said.
I felt like I’d been zapped with a cattle prod. My dad was an aerospace engineer.
“What kind of secrets?” I asked.
Ben kept his gaze glued to the people passing by and lowered his voice.
“Aircraft engines,” he said. “An engine designed with ‘super cruise’ capability allows an aircraft to fly at high performance levels but not use the after-burner. Doubles fuel usage. Eliminates the need for aerial refuel from tankers. Saves hundreds of millions of dollars in fuel costs.”
At this point in any conversation of this type, I usually drift off. Descriptions of aircraft systems and engineering developments
melt into blah, blah, blah. But this time I hung in there and paid attention.
“Something new is in development, something better than super cruise,” Ben went on.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It operates with a far more advanced DEC—digital engine control—which is the heart of the super cruise.”
Blah, blah, blah threatened to overtake me again, but I fought it off.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“I don’t know—yet. But that guy does. He’s the one hanging out with terrorists and selling our secrets.”
Ben nodded toward the crowd. I followed his gaze and realized that he hadn’t been watching passersby all this time but rather the restaurant across the promenade. The Bubba Gump Shrimp Company had patio seating. Several of the booths were occupied by couples.
“The dark-haired guy in the blue shirt,” Ben said, “sitting with the woman in the white blouse.”
The first thing I noticed about her was her handbag. Not a designer brand, not even a knockoff, but a department store house brand, the sight of which made me a little queasy.
It’s a genetic disorder, but I’ve learned to live with it.
This told me all I needed to know about her, but I looked a little further anyway. Mid-twenties, probably, with short dark hair cut in a simple style. No makeup, no jewelry. She had on navy blue pants and sensible flats. I didn’t recognize her.
The guy was in his early thirties, I guessed, with dark hair and—
Hang on a minute.
I knew him.
Oh my God. Oh my God. It was Doug—Doug Eisner, my ex-boyfriend.
Oh, crap.
Doug had a girlfriend. A new girlfriend. Already.
The thought had been lodged in my brain since last night when I’d spotted them together at City Walk, and had hung with me all day.
I whipped my Honda into the parking lot at Holt’s and headed for a prime spot near the door. An SUV cut me off and grabbed it. I hadn’t even seen it coming. That’s how distracted I was with Doug and this whole girlfriend-espionage-terrorist thing.
I slid into another space and cut the engine.
Doug and I had dated briefly—long story—a few weeks ago before Ty was my official boyfriend. He was nice in a lot of ways, but he was an engineer. Engineers were brilliant, but not exactly a lot of fun. Marcie and I had dubbed him “Dull Doug.”
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