Clutches and Curses

by Dorothy Howell

  “And why did she do this?” she asked. “What precipitated her actions?”

  I thought back, trying to remember everything that had happened that day in Holt’s. I’d been serving Bolt, the energy drink. The old lady was in the women’s department and had asked for help with the bathrobes, then got mad when I couldn’t—okay, wouldn’t—help her.

  “She said American girls—meaning me, I guess—had everything,” I said. “She said we gave nothing in return and that we were selfish.”

  Madam CeeCee considered this for a moment.

  “Of course, now I understand.” She nodded and smiled. “To lift this curse, you must simply perform a selfless act.”

  Oh, crap. A selfless act?

  That wasn’t really me. Hardly the sort of thing I did best.

  “That’s it?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she replied, looking altogether pleased with herself.

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “Don’t you need to look in a crystal ball? Check my aura or read my palm?”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  Okay, I didn’t want to seem ungrateful but, jeez, there had to be a better way—better for me, that is—to get rid of this curse.

  “You can’t shake a dead chicken at me instead?” I asked. “Chant something, maybe?”

  “The universe doesn’t work that way,” Madam CeeCee said. “You’ve gone too far in one direction and been selfish. Now you must go the other way and do something selfless, so the cosmic forces will balance.”

  Oh my God. That’s exactly what Taylor had been blabbing on about with her reverse world theory.

  Maybe there was something to it.

  “Exactly how selfless does this act have to be?” I asked.

  I mean, really, no need to go overboard, provided I could actually pull off something selfless.

  “How large is your curse?” she asked.

  Oh, crap. I was screwed, all right.

  “You have another question,” Madam CeeCee said.

  Something had definitely been on my mind for days—well, longer than that, actually. Hopefully, she’d give me an answer I liked better than this selfless-act thing.

  “I’ve got this boyfriend,” I said. “I’m not sure he’s the right one for me. Can you tell me?”

  Madam CeeCee frowned a little, leaned back, and looked me up and down. A full minute crawled by while she just stared.

  “All I can say is you’ve met the man who is your destiny,” she told me.

  “Who is he?” I asked.

  Madam CeeCee got to her feet. “You already know him quite well.”

  I got up. “Yeah, okay, but what’s his name?”

  “Look in your heart. You’ll find your answer there.”

  She smiled and walked out of the motel.

  How could she just leave like that—without giving me his name?

  I knew a lot of men. I knew a lot of men quite well. Did that mean it was Ty? Or some other man like—

  Oh my God. Could she have meant Detective Webster? Or Cliff?

  Oh, crap.

  It was a Louis Vuitton day. Definitely a Louis Vuitton day.

  I’d called in sick at Holt’s, using the touch-of-the-stomach-flu excuse—it’s a classic—then loaded up some shopping bags and headed to the mall.

  After carefully calculating the prices of the items I’d bought for myself since arriving in Vegas, I selected a few and returned just enough to buy a totally awesome DKNY business suit and accessories.

  Returning clothing—especially the fantastic clothes I’d bought—went against everything I stood for, but hey, I could be strong when I had to be. Besides, I could always return the suit and buy those items again.

  So here I stood in the lobby of the ultra-chic Corona office building, heading for the elevators. The guard at the security desk gave me a nod as I walked past. I hadn’t expected any trouble.

  Not only was I wearing a fabulous black suit, semi-sensible shoes, my hair in a no-nonsense up-do, but I’d channeled my mother’s I’m-better-than-you attitude, which had gotten me through many a tough situation.

  At least Mom was good for something.

  I took the elevator up to the top floor, got off, and approached the receptionist’s area. The office was huge, opulent, decorated in neutrals with desert landscape watercolors on the walls. Floor to ceiling windows across the room offered an incredible view of the vast expanse of the desert. I’m pretty sure I spotted the Chrysler Building on the horizon.

  “May I help you?” the receptionist asked.

  She was an older woman, well dressed, perfectly groomed, wearing an earpiece, and seated at what looked like the helm of the space shuttle.

  I walked over and ratcheted up my I’m-better-than-you attitude another notch.

  “I’m here to see Helen Pennington,” I told her, and gave her my name.

  She consulted her computer screen, and said, “I don’t see an appointment scheduled.”

  “I don’t have an appointment,” I told her. “But Helen will want to see me.”

  The receptionist’s heavy brows drew together. “I’m sorry, but Mrs. Pennington can’t see anyone today without an appointment.”

  I’d expected this. In fact, I’d hoped for it.

  I gave her an understanding smile, and said, “Would you give Helen a message for me?”

  “Certainly,” she said, picking up her pen and looking relieved that I wasn’t going to be any trouble.

  I was about to make her day, big time.

  “Tell Helen I’m here to talk with her about her son Bradley growing marijuana in the rooms of the Culver Inn,” I said.

  Her hand froze over her notepad. She looked up at me.

  “That boy of hers is really quite clever,” I said. “The grow rooms were located in a wing of the motel that he wouldn’t allow guests to use. Gardeners, if you will, came up the fire exit stairwell at night from the service area. The utility companies wouldn’t alert law enforcement to excessive use of water or electricity because Bradley wasn’t putting any water in the pool and, as I said, nobody was using the rooms in that wing.”

  The receptionist’s eyes got wider.

  I pointed to her message pad.

  “Did you get all of that?” I asked.

  “Perhaps you should discuss this with Mrs. Pennington in person,” the receptionist said. “I’ll send you right in.”

  I love being me.

  CHAPTER 27

  This is what heaven was like.

  At least, I hoped so.

  Handbags. Tens of thousands of gorgeous, magnificent, beautiful handbags spread out before me, offered by the most talented, gifted designers on the planet.

  My knees shook, my palms got sweaty. Really.

  Jeez, where was Marcie when I needed her?

  I stood in humble reverence at the entrance to the Mandalay Bay ballroom, the vendor room for what was billed as the first annual—please, God, let there be more—handbag convention.

  The convention center had been built with large crowds in mind—extra-wide corridors, scattered seating areas with comfortable-looking couches and chairs, and hospitality tables with plastic cups and pitchers of ice water. The lighting was soft, giving the oak wood trim a warm feel. The orange, gray, and beige design in the carpet looked classier than it sounded.

  Maya and I had arrived at our designated time this morning along with dozens of other workers, and had been given pale blue oxford shirts with “hospitality” embroidered over the pocket in red, along with I.D. cards on lanyards.

  Arlene had given us long-winded instructions that, really, I tried to listen to, but I’d drifted off. But before her speech turned into blah, blah, blah, she’d stressed the importance of security at the event, and the number of uniformed and plain-clothes personnel in place, plus the eyes-in-the-sky that Vegas was known for.

  With a ratio of approximately seven handbags for each woman expected to attend—a pitifully low figure, in my opinion—I could see
why they expected trouble.

  The two-day event was set to kick off in a few minutes. Throngs of women—accompanied by a few bewildered men—formed a line that stretched through the foyer and out of sight, anxiously waiting to get inside. Lots of laughter, talk, and giggles. Spirits were high.

  In my arms was a stack of glossy convention brochures detailing the layout and schedule of events. I, along with a half dozen other girls, was supposed to pass them out as the women filed past. Hopefully, we wouldn’t get trampled in an all-out stampede of women who wanted to be the first to see the newest handbags—not that I blamed them, of course.

  After all the brochures were distributed, we were supposed to take up a designated position and remain there to answer questions and offer assistance.

  Yeah, right.

  Next to the ballroom, down an adjoining corridor, were three breakout rooms. Two held exhibits and displays, the third was a hospitality suite manned by a security guard and open only to the upper echelon.

  I’d have to find a way to get inside, of course.

  When I’d awakened this morning, I told myself this would be a fantastic day because, really, I didn’t know when the next great thing might roll my way. My finances were in shambles. Somehow I was going to have to come up with a fabulous event for the Holt’s employees—out of my own pocket, apparently. So far I hadn’t thought of one single selfless thing to do that might break the curse I was under. I was on the radar of the Russian mob and, of course, a suspect in two murders.

  The only good thing that had happened to me lately was my visit to Helen Pennington yesterday and, really, that wasn’t so good. When I told her about Bradley’s grow rooms at the Culver Inn, she’d cried—which took all the fun out of ruining someone’s life.

  Oh, yeah, and Ty. He was one of the good things in my life—if I could just remember that.

  Outside the ballroom doors a few feet away stood a security guard. Tall, broad shoulders, close-cut hair, he wore a suit with a subdued tie and had one of those earpiece things coming out the back of his collar and going into his ear. He stood straight, feet braced apart, hands folded in front of him.

  So far I hadn’t seen him move a muscle, but his eyes swept back and forth watching for trouble, obviously ready to put the smack down on any unruly handbag buyer without hesitation.

  The noise level escalated and the crowd of women surged forward as the velvet rope holding them back was removed. They hit the long registration desk on the other side of the foyer, forked over their money, and got a lanyard in record time, then headed for the vendor room.

  I think I know how General Custer felt.

  “Smile,” Maya called from her position nearby.

  I plastered on a smile and handed out brochures as the women filed past. Most were dressed as if they’d come to play hard—comfy shoes, stretch pants, light jackets. Others were Vegased out with big hair, full-on makeup, tight jeans, and fake boobs squeezed into tight T-shirts.

  Almost everybody had brought out their big guns, handbag-wise. Designer purses of every shape, size, and color on the market.

  This was my place, these were my peeps.

  The line passed by us and I smiled—though I’m sure nobody noticed—and handed out brochures at a furious pace, then the attendees spread out through the aisles like hot lava careening down a volcanic hillside.

  “Let’s go check it out,” I said to Maya, once everyone had gotten past us.

  The security guard’s gaze shifted to me.

  I ignored him.

  “We’re supposed to stay here,” Maya said.

  “How can we give great service if we don’t get the lay of the place?” I asked.

  Yeah, okay, it was just an excuse to go see everything, but so what. No way could I stand this close to all those designer purses and not see every single one of them.

  “I guess you’re right,” Maya said.

  The ballroom was huge, the ceiling high. You could fit three football fields or something in the space—they’d told us the measurements at this morning’s meeting, but I’d drifted off. The carpet was a gold pattern that might have looked cheesy anywhere but Vegas.

  A maze of vendor booths was set up featuring the newest, latest, classic and best-selling bags. Totes, shoulder bags, clutches, satchels, hobos. Leather, fabric, beads, bows, feathers. A rainbow of colors, patterns, and textures galore.

  Other booths carried suitcases and trunks. A few had pet carriers along with designer collars and bedding. Some catered to the younger set with purses for kids and teens, and diaper bags for babies.

  I wanted to lie down and roll around in them, but I was going to work here for two days. No sense in doing all the fun stuff right away.

  “Look, they’re raffling off some bags,” Maya said.

  In the center of a booth atop a tall pedestal and encased in what was no doubt bulletproof glass sat two Judith Leiber handbags. My heart skipped a beat. Light shone down from above—and it wasn’t just the overhead lighting, because I also heard angels sing. I swear.

  Maya grasped my arm. “Oh my God. Judith Leiber.”

  Judith Leiber bags weren’t simply purses, they were art. They transcended fashion. Each bag was exquisitely and lovingly made with only the finest fabrics and trims, and—as if the human heart could stand any more—Austrian crystals.

  “I’d kill for one of those,” Maya swore.

  I had a Judith Leiber. I’d earned it the hard way—long story—and treasured it beyond belief. That, of course, was no reason not to have another one.

  Just when my pulse had started to settle down, I spotted two Delicious handbags in display cases nearby, ready to be raffled off.

  Oh my God. Delicious bags and Judith Leibers both in the same place. How much could my overstressed senses take in one day?

  Women crowded the booth buying raffle tickets as quickly as they could get their money out of their wallets.

  “Let’s buy a ticket,” I said.

  Maya grimaced and said, “Wow, fifty bucks a ticket. That’s pretty steep.”

  A blonde standing next to us carrying a Marc Jacobs satchel turned. “The Judith Lieber bags are valued at over seven grand—each. They’re special editions just for the convention.”

  The woman next to her with a terrific Chanel tote said, “Have you seen the message board by the entrance? Offers for up to ten thousand dollars to buy one of them from the raffle winners.”

  Maya’s eyes lit up. “Ten grand?”

  “I’m buying a ticket,” I said.

  Of course, I didn’t have fifty dollars to spare—I barely had fifty dollars at all. After leaving Helen Pennington’s office yesterday, I’d gone back to the mall and returned the business suit. But instead of repurchasing the items I’d exchanged it for, I’d had the clerk credit my Visa card. Then I’d raced to an ATM and gotten a cash advance so I’d have spending money for today.

  And what better way to spend it than on a raffle ticket? This was Vegas, after all. Plus, it wasn’t exactly gambling, was it?

  Maya drew a big breath. “Okay, I’ll buy one, too.”

  We eased through the crowd of women, put down our money, and bought our tickets. I checked my number. It ended with twelve, my lucky number. Cool.

  “Darn,” Maya said, eyeing her ticket. “The drawing is at noon. I’m scheduled to work the registration table then. What are you scheduled for?”

  There was a schedule?

  She pulled out one of the papers Arlene had given us this morning, which looked familiar, kind of, and checked it.

  “You’re working the info kiosk by the Kate Spade booth,” Maya said. “You’ll be close by when the numbers are called. Here, take my ticket so, if I win, you can claim it right away.”

  As I buttoned her ticket, along with my own, into the pocket of my shirt, a face on the other side of the raffle booth caught my eye. It was a man, which was odd enough at this event, but he looked familiar. When he turned to speak to the woman beside him, my brea
th caught.

  Mike Ivan. What was he doing here?

  I fought off full-on panic mode. Did he somehow know I was here? Had he decided I was a threat to him, after all? Or was he just here with his wife or girlfriend or whoever, to see the handbags?

  “Let’s check out the exhibits,” Maya said.

  “Great idea,” I said.

  We made our way to the ballroom doors and out into the foyer. I felt the security guard’s eyes on us as we walked by.

  We turned down the hallway that led to the three breakout rooms. The Breakers Room, farther along the hallway, was the hospitality suite to the rich and famous.

  According to the signs outside the other doors, the Reef Room held exhibits of vintage bags and purses of historical significance. In the Lagoon Room, authorized dealers were on hand to determine the authenticity of questionable purses, and to clean and repair handbags. Authors were selling and autographing books related to fashion, and artists at easels waited to paint your face onto the body of a supermodel dressed in designer clothing—and holding a fabulous purse, of course.

  “Let’s check out the vintage bags,” Maya said, and I followed her into the Reef Room.

  The lighting was subdued. Accent lights beamed down onto glass cases that displayed vintage bags and accessories spanning over a century. Striped travel bags from Fendi, sold in the 1980s. Fabulous Chanels from the 1950s. A Louis Vuitton Noe bag from 1932. French clutch bags created with precious jewels and damask in the early ’20s. A metal mesh bag, labeled 1910.

  There were bags on display that had been carried by celebrities and royalty alike. Grace Kelly, Princess Di, Cher. Another case held purses used by first ladies Nancy Reagan, Bess Truman, and Jackie Kennedy.

  By the time we’d looked at most of the exhibits, I’d calmed down and convinced myself that it was merely a coincidence that Mike Ivan was here today. I mean, jeez, he couldn’t be upset with me for anything, could he?

  Still, I thought it best to avoid him.

  “Haley, come look at this,” Maya called. I joined her at the display case. “Isn’t this the company you work for?”

  Inside lay a vintage handbag, circa late 1890s, beaded, trimmed with feathers, featuring a jeweled clasp. The Wallis bag, according to the sign. Beside it was an artist’s sketch of a five-story department store in Los Angeles with the words HOLT’S DEPARTMENT STORE written in cursive on the sign above the front door. Next to it was a very old black-and-white photograph of a rather handsome man posing beside a lovely young woman.