Dorothy Howell

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

  “Hey, Haley!” Christy called. She gave me a big smile and waved. “You’re going to love running a register!”

  “I’ve done this before. I’m not new—”

  “If you have any questions, just ask!” she told me, and turned back to her customer.

  Shannon escorted a bunch of customers over to my line to avoid a line-jumping stampede, while I punched my employee number into the register.

  I looked down the long line of customers. One of them could be a secret shopper. Or maybe more than one. The way our customer satisfaction stats fluctuated, apparently they were swarming our store like brides to a gown sale.

  I glanced at Christy on register four. She smiled and chatted with the customers, and they smiled and chatted back as they whizzed through her line.

  On my other side, Colleen manned register six. Colleen—who will probably work here forever because she’s too slow witted to know what a crappy job this is—talked to her customers like they were her best friends.

  Oh my God. Colleen and Christy were both working the new program. No way was I going to let them do better than me.

  Yeah, okay, I know I’m competitive. Sometimes in the gym I race the person beside me on the stationary bicycle. That’s how I roll.

  All I had to do was follow the steps from the customer service program. What were they? Something about pointing out benefits—that would be a stretch—suggesting add-ons—no way could I bring myself to do that—and asking a lifestyle question.

  That one I could do.

  The first customer was a woman in her forties. She handed me a knit top that was, even by Holt’s standards, an all-time fashion low.

  “I can’t believe I found this here,” she declared, shaking her head in wonder.

  The top was tie-dyed in about a dozen vibrant shades of orange, green, and purple, with ruffles running down the V-neck.

  I reeled back in horror.

  “I can hardly believe it, either,” I said.

  “I’ve been looking for something like this everywhere,” the woman said.

  “Leave it to Holt’s,” I said.

  I pulled myself together and scanned the tag.

  “Wow,” the woman declared, swiping her credit card, “it’s on sale. Half off. This is my lucky day. I’ll have to do something special with the savings.”

  “Like maybe buy some gasoline and matches to set this thing on fire,” I said.

  That was a lifestyle question, wasn’t it?

  I shoved the top into a bag. She snatched it out of my hand, gave me a dirty look, and walked away.

  Three more people got in my line.

  Christy waved, getting my attention.

  “You’re doing great,” she said, and gave me an encouraging nod. “Keep it up!”

  The next customer to step up was a woman with gray hair and hound dog jowls. She struggled to lay two picture frames on the counter.

  “Goodness, those are heavy,” she declared, breathing hard.

  I scanned them both—they weighed about a half pound combined—and told her the total. The woman studied the display screen.

  Two more customers joined my line. I glanced at Colleen. Her line was still moving. Christy’s was, too. I told the woman her total again.

  “I…I can’t see the screen,” she complained. “Where are my glasses?”

  She hefted her huge purse—a tote she’d decorated with red rhinestones herself, apparently—and rooted around for several minutes until she came up with her reading glasses.

  “There, that’s better,” the woman said, settling them on her nose. “Okay, now, let me see.”

  The customer behind her rolled her eyes.

  The woman leaned down and squinted at the display screen.

  “Oh, my, yes,” she said. “There it is. There’s the total.”

  In a complete departure from my own personal customer service policy and in a desperate attempt to get my line moving again, I said, “Would you like to put this on your Holt’s charge?”

  She looked up at me. “Oh, no. No, no. I never charge. And you shouldn’t either. No, I’ll write you a check.”

  A check? Jeez, nobody wrote checks anymore.

  The woman dived into her handbag again, scrounged around, and finally came up with her checkbook and began writing.

  It would probably have been faster if she’d chiseled it into stone.

  Customers in my line grumbled and shuffled impatiently. I didn’t blame them. At this rate, their coupons were going to expire before they got to the register.

  The woman slipped off her glasses and dropped them into her handbag again, then handed me her check. I didn’t bother to look at it—if she’d filled it out wrong, oh well—and fed it into the check reader, then shoved it into the register.

  “Thanks for shopping at Holt’s,” I said, dumping her picture frames into a bag.

  “Oh, wait. What is this?” the woman asked.

  Because retail stores are pathetically desperate to sell their customers—whom they’ve already run through their aisles and checkout lanes like a herd of cattle—one more item, they jammed all kinds of merchandise around the registers. Socks, perfume, boxed cards, gift cards. Anything, really.

  The woman plucked a chocolate bar from the display and squinted down at it.

  Shannon walked up to my line and glared at me—like it was my fault, or something, that this lady was taking forever.

  “I could use a little taste of something sweet,” the customer said. She leaned back and held the chocolate at arm’s length. “Does this have glutens?”

  Jeez, the last thing I needed was for her to dig her glasses out of her handbag again to read the ingredients.

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s loaded with glutens.”

  I had no idea what glutens were. We probably covered that in health class. I hate that class.

  “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt, just this once,” the woman said, and laid the chocolate bar on the counter. “I’ll take it.”

  The woman in line behind her groaned. I nearly did, too.

  I scanned the chocolate bar and—thank God—the customer pulled a wallet out of her handbag instead of her checkbook.

  “That will be three ten,” I told her.

  “Good,” she said, as she unzipped her change purse. “I can finally get rid of all my pennies.”

  I hate my life.

  Since it was too late to go shopping when I got off work, there was no way to soothe my frazzled nerves but to hit my favorite Starbucks on the way home. I got my mocha frappuccino—venti, with whipped cream and an extra shot of chocolate syrup, which just shows what a crappy day I’d had—and took a seat outside at an umbrella table.

  The evening was a perfect Southern California evening. Few stars were visible, of course, since the city lights were so bright, and the only breeze came from the passing cars, but still, it was a great place to unwind.

  I had a lot to think about—Tiffany’s murder, Rita’s sort-of disappearance, Doug’s terrorism, my college classes that I hated, the Sinful bag I desperately needed, and the record label’s party I absolutely had to have a cool outfit for—not to mention Ty. He’d left me a message on my cell phone saying he missed me and was anxious to get home. That was nice to hear. At least I think it was. He’d said it so fast I could barely make out the words.

  I drew in a deep breath, closed my eyes, and let myself relax. I needed to just let everything go, mentally. For a few minutes, I wanted to—

  The chair beside me scraped the concrete patio. I opened my eyes and I saw a man sitting next to me. The light was dim. Shadows fell across his face. A couple of seconds passed before I recognized him.

  Kirk Keegan.

  My heart banged against my chest. I sat up straight in the chair.

  “You ruined my life,” Kirk said calmly. “Now I’m going to ruin yours. And just so you know, I’m going to start with that boyfriend of yours.”

  He got up and walked away.

>   Oh, crap.

  CHAPTER 10

  Oh my God. Oh my God. I couldn’t believe it. Kirk Keegan had just sat down beside me. Threatened me. And walked away—like nothing had happened.

  I sat frozen in the chair outside Starbucks, too stunned to move.

  For a second I wondered if I’d imagined it. It had been over with so fast, I wasn’t sure anything had really happened—sort of like some of the guys I’d had sex with.

  Was it really Kirk? I hadn’t seen him in months but, yeah, it was him. I’d recognize him anywhere. Early thirties, dark hair, handsome. Really handsome. Kirk never had trouble with the women, thanks to his good looks. He was a charmer, too. Women couldn’t resist that either.

  He’d been an attorney with Pike Warner, where I’d worked, back in the day. We’d hung out a few times but never had any sort of relationship beyond that. I’d thought he was my friend—until he screwed me over big time. I’d shoved it right back on him and he’d disappeared—after he threatened to kill me, of course. I’d figured I’d seen the last of him.

  Until now.

  I grabbed my frappuccino and rushed to my car, got inside, and peeled out of the lot in full-on panic mode.

  He had my home address—long story—so he must have followed me. That’s why I’d had that creepy feeling lately that someone had been tailing me. It wasn’t the FBI. It was Kirk. He knew where I lived, where I worked, even my favorite Starbucks. What else did he know?

  Everything, probably.

  Oh my God, was he following me now?

  I looked in my rearview mirror, then at the traffic on my left and right. It was dark so I couldn’t see inside the cars. Why hadn’t I paid attention when he left Starbucks? I would know what he was driving.

  I’ve got to get better at this surveillance thing.

  Why can’t they have a useful class like that in college?

  I cut across two lanes of traffic and hit the entrance to the 14 freeway, heading south. Traffic was light—well, light for L.A.—but there were too many cars to know if Kirk was following me. I hung in the left lane, then swerved all the way to the right and caught the transition to the northbound 5. Nobody followed, so I figured Kirk wasn’t behind me.

  Not that it mattered, I realized. He knew everything about me. He could show up at my apartment or at my job any time he wanted.

  Not a great feeling.

  I drove for a while, gradually slowing to something close to the speed limit, gradually calming down.

  I wasn’t sure how Kirk thought he could ruin my life—since I thought it was pretty screwed up already—but he’d threatened Ty. I had to do something.

  I fished my cell phone and Bluetooth out of my purse and called Jack Bishop, the hottest—and only—private investigator I knew. He answered on the second ring.

  “I had a visitor tonight,” I told him. “Kirk Keegan.”

  Jack was quiet for a few seconds, then said, “What did he want?”

  “Revenge.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Driving.”

  “I’ll meet you at your place. Stay in your car until I get there,” Jack said, and hung up.

  I exited the freeway at McBean Parkway and took the surface streets through Valencia to my apartment in Santa Clarita. When I swung into my assigned parking spot, I saw Jack’s black Land Rover sitting nearby. He appeared out of nowhere and slipped into my passenger seat. I was sure he’d already checked the parking lot and the hallway outside my apartment, looking for Kirk.

  Tonight Jack had on jeans, a dark crew-neck shirt, and a black leather jacket. I didn’t know where he’d been or what he’d been doing when I had called, but he got here pretty quick. I wondered if he drove around looking hot, just in case.

  “Kirk sat down at my table at Starbucks. I didn’t even see him walk up. He said that I’d ruined his life so now he was going to ruin mine,” I said. “Do you think he’s serious, or just trying to scare me?”

  Jack’s job as a consultant to Pike Warner meant that he handled all sorts of investigations—and not just for clients. He’d never come out and said so, but I knew he had the inside track on some of the firm’s employees, too—including Kirk.

  “He’s serious,” Jack said, his eyes roaming the parking lot. “Keegan’s a smart guy. Don’t underestimate him.”

  I knew Kirk was smart. He’d been way up the food chain at Pike Warner before he’d turned to the Dark Side.

  “Keegan’s the kind of guy who’d toy with you,” Jack said. “Not attack you outright.”

  That sounded like Kirk’s style. He must have been following me for a while, coming up with a plan. Ty had been out of the country, then I’d been gone for two weeks in Europe with him. Kirk must have wondered why I hadn’t been at home or at work. But he hadn’t given up, obviously. He’d waited since last fall to get even with me.

  “Ty’s in Europe,” I said. “No way Kirk can get to him over there.”

  “Don’t bet on it.”

  “Ty’s got a lot on him right now with this whole Holt’s International thing he’s trying to launch,” I said. “I don’t want to worry him.”

  If I told Ty what was going on—not that I expected him to call me again anytime soon—and he rushed home—not that I really thought he would—wouldn’t that just put him in Kirk’s path? Make things worse?

  Jack thought for a moment. “I’ll check into it.”

  “I think I should get a gun,” I said.

  “No.”

  “Will you help me—”

  “No.”

  “Take me to the shooting range—”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  Jack opened the car door. “I’ll walk you upstairs.”

  I got out and we climbed the stairs to my second floor apartment. The exterior walkways were dimly lit by wall sconces and muted light shining through my neighbors’ windows. Jack took my key and went inside first. He checked out the rooms while I waited by the front door.

  “No sign of Keegan,” he reported. “Just watch yourself. Call me if anything happens.”

  Jack stood near me. The heat from his body sent all sort of thoughts through my head—which was really bad, I know. Ty was my boyfriend now and I had to remember that—even though he wasn’t here, and seldom called, and never e-mailed, and didn’t send flowers or cards or gifts. Still, he was my boyfriend.

  “Thanks,” I said to Jack. “I owe you.”

  “Damn right you do.” He gave me one of his killer smiles. “I’ll let you know what I want, when I want it.”

  He left. I bolted the door.

  It was a Coach day. Definitely a Coach day.

  Thanks to Kirk Keegan, I needed to find a new favorite Starbucks. This was a major inconvenience, but luckily there were so many of them I had a lot to choose from.

  Bright and early—well, ten o’clock was kind of early—the next morning I rolled up to a Starbucks in Glendale and parked. Glendale was a bit of a drive from my house but there was a great mall nearby so that made it okay.

  I sat in my car—I had a serious Starbucks flashback from last night—waiting to see if Kirk Keegan pulled in behind me. He didn’t, so I grabbed my Coach tote and went inside.

  I ordered a venti mocha frappuccino with whipped cream and extra chocolate—just to stimulate my brain cells, of course—and sat down at a table. I had an English paper due today so I had brought my laptop.

  Using a laptop in Starbucks was the coolest thing ever. You always looked smart. For all anybody knew, you could be writing a screenplay or a major magazine article. I pulled a scarf from my tote and tied it around my neck, which made me look positively brilliant.

  I hoped someone I knew would come in and see me—someone other than Kirk Keegan, that is.

  I hardly slept at all last night thinking about Kirk’s threats. I knew Jack would keep his word and check into whatever it was he wanted to check into, but I couldn’t just leave it at that.

  What could Kirk do to
ruin Ty? Lots of things, I figured, like vandalize his businesses or hurt his family. But I didn’t think that would be enough for Kirk. Whatever he did, he’d want to make sure it hurt me, too. I mean, otherwise, what was the point? His plan must be something he could put into action immediately upon Ty’s return from Europe, but I still had no clue of what it might be.

  I sipped my frappuccino and gazed out the window into the parking lot. Maybe I should encourage Ty to stay longer—not that he seemed in a rush to get back to me anyway.

  And just to prove that my life could continue to get worse, it occurred to me that once Kirk had accomplished whatever it was he had planned for ruining Ty, he might move on to everyone in my family. Or maybe one of my friends, or somebody I work with.

  Never mind. I couldn’t worry about that now—not with everything else I had to deal with.

  I pulled my laptop out of my Coach tote and powered it up. The English paper I was supposed to write would just have to wait. I dashed off a quick e-mail to my professor containing my touch-of-the-stomach-flu excuse—a personal favorite of mine—and let him know I’d have the paper in to him tomorrow. He’d lower my grade but, oh well.

  I couldn’t do anything about Kirk, at the moment, so I moved on. This thing with Ed Buckley had been rambling around in the back of my head for a while. Even though Detective Shuman had acted like he was ready to make up and play nice the last time I saw him, I didn’t know for sure that I could count on that. I had to check things out myself.

  I Googled the newspapers in Charleston and came up with the Charleston Post and Courier. Tiffany’s death had made the front page, unlike here in L.A. where it hadn’t caused a ripple. If she’d been a celebrity or call girl or a disgraced politician, the media would have been all over it.

  Virginia Foster could have written the newspaper story—it had all the info she’d given me that evening, in Holt’s breakroom. Tiffany had been from an old, well-established Low Country family, a partner in their prestigious law firm. She’d been active in all sorts of civic and charity organizations.

  The story gave the impression that Tiffany’s death had resulted from a random shooting—not unusual for Los Angeles.