Jack Bishop had followed me once—it was totally hot when he did it, of course—but now the idea seemed kind of creepy.
Who else might follow me, track my movements? Who else knew where I live and work? Who else might just appear in front of me one day?
The door to the conference room opened and special agents Paulson and Jordan walked in. I’d already forgotten which was which. I mean, really, how could I not? The FBI apparently hired people in the same way as the Rockettes. Everybody was the same height and build, only these guys didn’t look likely to form up in a kick line—unless it was to boot my butt into a cell somewhere.
“Would you like some coffee or a soda?” one of them asked.
Since I didn’t know which was which, I decided to think of him as Special Agent Paulson.
“Water, maybe?” he asked.
I could seriously go for a couple dozen Snickers bars. Luckily, I had my mom’s pageant queen metabolism and could burn off calories quickly, but I was afraid to ask for anything. These FBI guys might unwrap a few bars and torture me with the smell of chocolate, and I’d confess to something.
“No, thank you,” I said, glad that I sounded composed.
“Have a seat, Miss Randolph,” Special Agent Jordan said, gesturing to the chair.
I sat down. The two of them took seats opposite me and Paulson laid a file folder atop the table.
Mentally, I steeled myself. I was not—not—going to say anything that might hurt my dad. He worked hard, he put up with a lot—he was, after all, married to my mom—and he didn’t deserve to have his whole life shattered by some stupid misunderstanding.
And as for Doug? Well, I didn’t want anything bad to happen to him, but he had a new girlfriend now—which still kind of annoyed me—and it was up to her to worry about him. All I cared about was my dad.
“What can you tell us about the morning Tiffany Markham was murdered?” Paulson asked.
Tiffany? Why was he asking about Tiffany? What about Doug and my dad and terrorism?
“Who?” I exclaimed.
Paulson took an eight by ten photo from the folder and placed it on the table in front of me. It was so unflattering, I figured it must have been her DMV photo.
“Tiffany Markham,” Paulson said again. “You do know her, don’t you?”
“Well, yeah,” I told him. “But I figured you were going to ask me about—”
Oh, crap. I almost blurted it out.
“What?” Jordan asked.
“Nothing,” I said, and it came out sounding way guilty.
Jordan and Paulson both stared at me, as if trying to penetrate my thoughts with death rays or something.
Then it hit me: the feds had taken over Tiffany’s case from Madison and Shuman, not some other LAPD homicide detectives.
I couldn’t wait to tell Shuman.
Then something else hit me: if they weren’t asking about Doug, but were interested in Tiffany instead, that meant they really wanted to talk to me about the knockoff handbag parties. How lame was that?
“Look, I know we all have our assigned role in life,” I said, “but did you two really go to all the trouble of becoming FBI agents just to be purse police? I mean, really, there are a lot of real crimes happening around here.”
Jordan and Paulson glanced at each other, then turned to me again.
“What can you tell us about Tiffany Markham?” Jordan asked.
I was tempted to throw Rita out in front of the bus and name her as Tiffany’s business partner, but I figured they already knew that. Maybe they’d already questioned Rita, arrested her, and thrown her in jail. Was that why she hadn’t been at Holt’s lately?
The thought cheered me up a bit.
“I only met Tiffany once,” I said.
“Did she mention anything about her family in South Carolina?” Jordan asked.
“I didn’t even know she was from South Carolina until Virginia told me,” I said.
“Virginia?” Paulson asked.
Jeez, these guys didn’t know about Virginia Foster? What sort of investigators were they?
“Her friend, Virginia Foster. She came to California when she heard about Tiffany’s murder,” I said.
Then I started to get a weird feeling. Maybe this wasn’t about the purse business, after all.
“This is about one of Tiffany’s cases back in Charleston, isn’t it?” I said. “You two do know she was a lawyer, right?”
Paulson pulled another eight by ten photo from the file folder and placed it in front of me.
“Do you recognize this man?” he asked.
I leaned forward and studied the picture. It was a man in his late thirties. He was smiling, and his blond hair was blowing as if he were on a boat or at the beach, maybe, and didn’t have a care in the world. He was handsome and well groomed. If my mom were here, she’d raise her nose a bit and proclaim him “new money.”
“I’ve never seen him,” I said.
“Never?” Jordan asked.
I shook my head.
“How about the morning Tiffany was murdered?” Jordan asked. “Did you see him then?”
Oh my God. Did the FBI think this guy in the photo had something to do with Tiffany’s murder? Was I looking at her killer? An accomplice? A witness?
I sat back again and centered my thoughts on that morning in the Holt’s parking lot. Lots of people were there—I’d gone over all of it with Madison and Shuman that day, then later at Starbucks with Shuman—and nobody stuck out in my mind.
“I’ve never seen him before,” I repeated. “Who is he?”
“Edward Buckley,” Paulson said.
Then I remembered that in the breakroom at Holt’s, Virginia had mentioned Tiffany’s brother-in-law Ed who’d been killed in a car accident last year.
Okay, now I was really confused.
“Isn’t he dead?” I asked.
Jordan looked at Paulson kind of weird, like maybe they didn’t realize I knew Ed was dead, and maybe they’d said something they weren’t supposed to say.
“What’s this got to do with Tiffany?” I asked.
Paulson picked up the photos and stuffed them back into the file folder and they rose from their chairs.
“If you should recall anything more from that morning, give us a call,” Jordan said, and presented me with his business card.
“Or if you should see…anyone significant,” Paulson added.
I heaved a sigh of relief as they walked out of the office. Then Special Agent Paulson turned back.
“And, Miss Randolph, don’t leave town,” he said, then disappeared out the door.
I sat glued to my chair. Did that mean the FBI considered me a suspect in Tiffany’s murder?
Oh, crap.
Another FBI agent, I guessed, escorted me downstairs and out of the building. My head was spinning by the time I got to my car.
The feds were investigating Tiffany’s murder? A dead guy who maybe wasn’t really dead? Dull-Doug-turned-terrorist wasn’t even on the FBI’s radar? I was still a suspect?
How could I begin to make sense of it all?
One thing was clear—there was nothing to do but go shopping.
CHAPTER 8
I called Bella—luckily, she ignored the lame-o no-cell-phone rule at Holt’s—and she promised to meet me in the parking lot. She sounded kind of disappointed when I told her the detectives—I didn’t mention they were really FBI agents—were there because I’d witnessed an auto accident, and I wasn’t in trouble and heading for the Mexican border or anything. It was a total lie, but I didn’t want to get into the whole thing about Tiffany’s murder since neither Bella nor anyone else in the store had mentioned it and didn’t seem to know about it.
Or did she?
I pulled into the Holt’s parking lot and nosed into a space in the area where Bella usually parked. I glanced at the store entrance. No sign of Bella.
The gun hidden beneath the driver’s seat had been in the back of my head since I’d
found it there earlier. Why would Bella have it? Was it just for personal protection? Or something else?
I unwound my turban and took off the fuchsia poncho; I’d take them back during my next shift and enter them as returned and damaged in the inventory computer.
A thought crept into my brain. I didn’t want to consider it—sort of like wondering what it would be like to carry a Fendi purse to a beach party—but I couldn’t stop the image from blooming in my head.
Had Bella killed Tiffany?
I felt awful thinking even for a split second that my BFF at Holt’s could do such a thing, but jeez, she had a gun. Why wouldn’t I think it?
I remembered back to the morning of Tiffany’s murder. Bella had definitely not been in the parking lot when I’d arrived. I would have recognized her or her car. Wouldn’t I?
Now I wasn’t so sure. I’d been totally focused on getting those boxes of clothes for Ada and tracking down a Sinful handbag. Maybe I wasn’t really paying attention.
Was she at work that morning, or later in the afternoon? I didn’t remember.
What about motive? I couldn’t think of a reason why Bella might have killed Tiffany. Opportunity? Shuman had agreed that the shooting had happened quickly, in the few minutes it had taken me to get inside the store, grab the clothes, and head out again. I suppose Bella could have done the deed as quickly as anyone.
I glanced at the store entrance. Still no sign of Bella.
I opened the glove box and rooted around until I found her car registration. Her home address was in North Hollywood. Not the sort of place you’d see a lot of kids walking around in white polo shirts carrying band instruments, but not a bad area, either. Would Bella need a gun for protection?
I glanced up and saw Bella crossing the parking lot, so I shoved her registration back into the glove box, grabbed my things, and got out.
“You okay?” she asked.
She looked concerned, which made me feel like an idiot for suspecting her of murder.
“It was nothing,” I said, waving my hand to dismiss the whole thing. “But thanks. I appreciate your help.”
“You coming into work?” she asked, nodding toward the store.
I could have gone into the store and worked my shift—I had, after all, clocked in today—but I didn’t think I could face an evening of dealing with customers—not to mention the other employees. If Christy hit me with another Halt for Holt’s intervention, I might rush out to the parking lot for Bella’s gun and put an end to that marketing plan once and for all.
“Can’t do it,” I said. “Clock me out, will you?”
“Sure. At the end of your shift,” Bella said slyly.
See what a great BFF she is? Could somebody that nice commit murder?
Really, I knew the answer: yes.
I scrounged a twenty dollar bill from my purse and held it out. I knew Bella was saving for beauty school and money was tight with her.
“For gas,” I said.
Bella waved it away. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Look, it’s either cash or a Holt’s gift card,” I told her. “You pick.”
She snatched the bill from my hand, we swapped keys, and I got into my car as she headed back into the store.
I glanced around but didn’t see anybody—more FBI agents, maybe?—sitting in a car, keeping tabs on me. Nobody looked suspicious. Still I couldn’t shake the thought that, apparently, special agents Paulson and Jordan suspected me of Tiffany’s murder and maybe someone really was watching me.
Never mind that now. I had something more important to attend to.
I pulled away from the store punching in Marcie’s number on my cell phone. We met an hour later at Bloomingdale’s.
“I can’t believe they don’t have a Sinful bag here, either,” Marcie said, as we walked through their handbag department.
It was a fabulous purse department. All the best designers and all the latest bags—except for the Sinful.
“There’s got to be one somewhere,” I said.
“You know, you could always—”
“Don’t say it.”
I knew what Marcie was going to suggest even before she said it—that’s what good friends we were—and I absolutely could not allow the thought to enter my brain.
“I’m not getting a knockoff,” I insisted.
“They’re bound to be all over the Fashion District,” she said. “We could go down there and—”
“No,” I said, shaking my head.
I simply could not buy a fake bag for myself—and certainly not the coveted Sinful bag—no matter how desperate I was to have one.
“When’s our next party?” I asked, anxious to change the subject.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Marcie said, as we left Bloomingdale’s and walked into the mall. “With Tiffany dying, maybe we shouldn’t have any more parties for a while.”
“Are you kidding? Now’s the time to go full blast,” I said.
All along I’d wondered how Rita managed to do so well in the purse party business. Now, knowing that Tiffany used to be an attorney, I figured she had been the brains behind their operation. Without her in the picture, Rita would likely fall on her face. What better time to take advantage of somebody’s bad luck, swoop in, and grab all the business for ourselves?
Marcie shook her head. “There’ll be a lot of police attention focused on Tiffany’s life. We probably shouldn’t be involved with the purses right now. It is sort of a, well, a gray area, legally.”
Marcie was usually right about things. But the truth was I needed the money. I had my bills covered for now, but I’d have to do something soon. My European shopping spree had pretty much wiped out my checking account.
“Okay,” I agreed. “But—oh my God.”
I stopped and turned away, ducking my head. Marcie read my move immediately and did the same—as a best friend would.
“It’s Doug,” I whispered.
Marcie gasped. “Your ex?”
I couldn’t believe it. I’d just seen Doug the other day eating at the Bubba Gump Shrimp Company, and now I’d stumbled over him again—with his girlfriend. What were the chances?
“That’s him in the dull blue shirt looking in the Brook-stone window,” I said.
Marcie’s gaze homed in on him like a heat-seeking missile. Her eyes widened.
“He’s got a new girlfriend?” she asked. “Dull Doug has a new girlfriend? Already?”
It was kind of embarrassing that socially awkward, boring Doug had found a new girlfriend so quickly after we’d broken up. We called him Dull Doug, for God’s sake. He probably hadn’t had back-to-back girlfriends before in his entire life.
“She must be an engineer, too,” Marcie said. “Look at the way she’s dressed.”
I glanced up. Marcie was right. The new girlfriend kind of looked like Doug—with boobs. Khaki pants, a blue blouse, flats. She carried the same department store purse I’d seen her with the other night.
“That’s weird. She sort of resembles you,” Marcie mumbled. She must have heard my outraged gasp because she rushed on. “Generally speaking, I mean. Tall, like you. Dark hair, same sort of figure. She even has your pageant legs.”
Once I got past the new girlfriend’s hideous clothes and her no-name handbag, I could see that Marcie was right.
“Maybe Doug isn’t over you after all,” she said. “Maybe he just found a replacement.”
“One who won’t doze off when he talks,” I said.
Doug and the new girlfriend moved away from the Brook-stone store, heading toward us.
“Let’s get out of here,” Marcie said, and we walked the opposite way. “So what’s up with Ty? When did he get home?”
I knew Marcie had asked about my own boyfriend to make me feel better about seeing Doug. That’s what best friends do.
“He’s not here yet,” I reported, as we strolled through the mall. “Something came up. He’s not sure when he’ll be home.”
&nb
sp; “Did he ask you to come back to Europe?” she asked.
“No, he didn’t mention it.”
Marcie said something but I didn’t hear it. A noise started roaring in my brain, shutting out all other sounds.
Oh my God. Why hadn’t Ty asked me to come back to Europe?
Didn’t he like sleeping with me? Did he think I was boring in bed because I didn’t know I was supposed to make the bull sound after he made the bear sound? Was Ty dreading the thought of sleeping with me?
Yeah, okay, I knew I’d been thinking that same thing—but this is totally different.
Marcie grabbed my arm and pulled me into Bloomingdale’s again, shaking me out of my am-I-bad-in-bed trauma.
“Here comes Doug and the new girlfriend,” she whispered, leading me down the aisle.
I glanced back and saw them headed our way. Jeez, how did I keep stumbling over them?
“Let’s go look at shoes,” Marcie said. “Judging from what she’s wearing, they won’t come near that department.”
We browsed through the displays of stilettos and pumps—I’m a sucker for a peek toe—and I was about to try on purple sling-backs—that I had nothing to wear with, of course—when Doug walked up.
“Hello, Haley,” he said.
I was so stunned, all I could do was stare up at him.
He glanced back and I spotted the new girlfriend across the department, pretending to look at a totally hot pair of spiked heel, black leather, fur-trimmed boots. They were from Kenneth Cole which, I’m sure, went right over her head.
Doug looked at me solemnly.
“Haley, I know you’re hurt about the way things turned out between us,” he said, “but you have to stop following me.”
“What?”
“I’ve seen you spying on Emily and me,” Doug said.
“I—you—but—”
“This is for your own good,” he said.
“You think I’m—”
“Haley, you have to get over me,” he said. “In time, you’ll thank me for this.”
Doug walked away.
I just stood there, my mouth open, as he joined his girlfriend. She glanced back and shot me a pitying expression, then linked her arm through his and walked away.
Dorothy Howell Page 7