Shop Til You Drop Dead (A Hollis Brannigan Mystery)
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Shop Til You Drop Dead
By
Dorothy Howell
Copyright © 2020 by Dorothy Howell
dorothyhowellnovels.com
ISBN: 978-0-9981969-5-4
These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Dorothy Howell.
Cover art by Stacy Howell
Edited by William F. Wu, Ph.D.
www.williamfwu.com
E-book Formatting by Web Crafters
www.webcraftersdesign.com
With love to Stacy, Judy, Brian, and Seth
The author is extremely grateful for the love, support, and help of many people. Some of them are: Stacy Howell, Judith Branstetter, Brian Branstetter, Seth Branstetter, Martha Cooper, William F. Wu, Ph.D., Laura Levine, and the talented people at Web Crafters Design.
BOOKS BY DOROTHY HOWELL
The Haley Randolph Mystery Series
Handbags and Homicide
Purses and Poison
Shoulder Bags and Shootings
Clutches and Curses
Tote Bags and Toe Tags
Evening Bags and Executions
Beach Bags and Burglaries
Swag Bags and Swindlers
Slay Bells and Satchels
Duffel Bags and Drownings
Fanny Packs and Foul Play
Pocketbooks and Pistols
Backpacks and Betrayals
Messenger Bags and Murder
Man Bags and Malice
The Dana Mackenzie Mystery Series
Fatal Debt
Fatal Luck
Fatal Choice
ROMANCES BY JUDITH STACY
Outlaw Love
The Marriage Mishap
The Heart of a Hero
The Dreammaker
The Blushing Bride
Written in the Heart
The Last Bride in Texas
The Nanny
Married by Midnight
Cheyenne Wife
The Widow’s Little Secret
Maggie and the Law
The One Month Marriage
The Hired Husband
Jared’s Runaway Woman
Christmas Wishes
Wild West Wager
“Three Brides and a Wedding Dress” in Spring Brides
“A Place to Belong” in Stay for Christmas
“Courting Miss Perfect” in Stetsons, Spring, and Wedding Rings
“Texas Cinderella” in Happily Ever After in the West
“Waiting for Christmas” in All a Cowboy Wants for Christmas
ROMANCES BY DOROTHY HOWELL
Defiant Enchantress
Anna’s Treasure
Tea Time
For all you readers keeping an eye on the percentage of this book you’ve read, please note that following Shop Til You Drop Dead is an excerpt from Messenger Bags and Murder, a novella in my Haley Randolph mystery series. There’s also an excerpt from Wild West Wager, an historical romance I write under my pen name Judith Stacy.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Excerpt from Messenger Bags and Murder
Excerpt from Wild West Wager
Chapter 1
“I’m not doing it,” I said.
Bailey gave me serious stink-eye and said, “You have to.”
I gave her serious stink-eye right back. “No.”
“It’s on her list, Hollis,” she told me. “You have to buy them.”
I grabbed the elastic-waist khaki pants by the hanger and jerked them off the rack.
“They’re hideous,” I said, and shook them at her. “I’m not buying them.”
“They’re hideous, all right,” she agreed. “I’d die if somebody bought those for me.”
“I’d kill if somebody bought them for me,” I told her.
And that about summed up the difference between me and my friend Bailey Redding—except for our appearance. I was five-foot seven-inches tall with auburn hair and green eyes. Bailey was a little shorter and wore her blonde hair spiked up.
Oh, and Bailey is from around here.
I hung the god-awful pants on the rack again. “There’s only so much I’ll do for money.”
“Yeah? Well, you’re the only person in this town who’ll say that,” Bailey replied.
She pulled the pants off the rack and shoved them into my arms.
I knew she was right and that this was what my life was all about these days. And, really, except for rare occasions such as this, I was okay with it.
We were in Macy’s on Flower Street in Los Angeles and, believe it or not, we were working—if you can define work as spending your days in fabulous stores, shops, and boutiques shelling out unseemly amounts of other people’s money.
Both of us were personal shoppers employed by the Fisher Joyce Group, a concierge service housed in a high-rise a few blocks away on Wilshire Boulevard. The firm’s motto was “Almost Anything for Absolutely Anyone,” and they meant it. There were experts on staff who could give fashion advice and defend a client on murder charges—and everything in between.
Bailey had worked for Fisher Joyce for a while now; I’d gotten this job a few weeks ago.
I’m not from around here.
“Do you need anything else?” Bailey asked.
As you could guess by the elastic-waist khaki pants, I wasn’t exactly buying for the Beyoncés of the world.
I glanced at my cell phone and the list of items my client had ordered today. She was Zella Mason, a screenwriter who’d made her mark in Hollywood back before I was born—and that was 23 years ago. Her sense of style had gone the way of those disaster movies like Earthquake and The Towering Inferno, taking her career along with it.
“That’s it for Zella,” I said.
“No cotton panties with a double-lined crotch? How about a boxed bra?” Bailey asked.
“I hate you,” I told her.
Bailey knew I didn’t mean it, but if I really did hate her I would be justified in doing so.
She shopped for what Fisher Joyce had determined were B-list clients—second-tier celebrities, business women and professionals, people who cared about what they looked like and wanted to project a certain image, people who had actual taste and style.
My clients were referred to as off-listers—not to their faces, of course—fading stars, aging industry people, new clients with no pedigree, and most any whack job who stumbled into our office and could pay our outrageous fee.
Of course, our clients could always order what they wanted off the internet and hav
e it delivered to their home. Or our A-listers could have their personal assistants do their shopping for them. But Fisher Joyce was the hot way to go, something to oh-so casually mention at cocktail parties, or at the makeup mirror in the ladies room at gala events.
As if those people needed another reason to feel special.
Bailey glanced at the T-shirts draped across her arm and consulted the list on her phone. “That’s it for me.”
I looked at my phone again for the last item on my shopping list, this one for a different off-lister.
“I need to stop by the shoe department,” I said.
We made our way through the lunchtime crowd. Eric, one of the clerks we knew—tall, thin, young, immaculately groomed—saw us coming, gave us a little nod and disappeared into the stockroom. We followed him in.
“Check out these little darlings,” he said, and whipped off the top of a shoe box as if he were a French chef presenting his latest gourmet creation.
Inside lay a gorgeous pair of cherry red stilettos from the smoking hot, newest designer on the fashion scene. Bailey and I gasped.
True, I’m not from around here, but you don’t have to be from L.A. to appreciate an awesome pair of shoes.
Eric slammed the lid on the box and glanced around.
“Don’t breathe a word,” he whispered. “I don’t want a riot to break out.”
Eric, like a lot of salespeople at the major department stores, shops, and boutiques in L.A., knew what our clients liked as well as we did and held back the hottest items for us, pumping up his commission in the process.
“They’re perfect for one of my clients. It will be a great surprise for her,” Bailey said. “I’ll take them.”
I didn’t fight her for the shoes since Zella was pretty much the fashion trendsetter of my client list—with one exception.
“Have you got my client’s shoes?” I asked.
Eric knew right away to whom I was referring, and pulled the box off of a high shelf.
Gloria Wyatt was one of my off-listers. She had a special place in my heart because she was the very first person I’d shopped for when I came on board with Fisher Joyce. If she had more prestige she’d have been assigned to Bailey or one of the other B-list shoppers. She owned the Glorious Nails chain of nail salons. Her shops were located in strip malls and catered to middle-class clientele, thus relegating her to me as an off-lister.
Eric rang up our purchases and we paid for them using the Fisher Joyce-issued credit cards assigned to each of us. The company was big on accounting. We shoppers had to answer for every dime we spent.
“Let me know when you get something awesome in purple,” Bailey said as Eric passed us our shopping bags.
He nodded wisely. “For you-know-who?”
“Yep,” Bailey said.
I didn’t ask who you-know-who was because we weren’t supposed to name names, both for privacy and to continue the illusion of mystery at Fisher Joyce. But if I asked Bailey, she’d tell me.
“I’ll call you,” Eric promised.
We wound our way out of the shoe department.
“Are you heading back to the office?” I asked.
“I’ve got one quick stop to make,” Bailey said.
“See you later,” I called.
I took the escalator down to the parking garage and loaded my packages into the rear of the brand-spanking-new BMW 5-Series I’d been assigned when I left Fisher Joyce earlier. Driving a cool car while on company business was a perk I hadn’t expected when I’d taken the job as personal shopper.
Truthfully, this wasn’t a job I’d ever aspired to. It wasn’t covered on career day at the high school I’d attended in Kansas City, Kansas—or KCK, as we called it—and it certainly wasn’t mentioned at the community college where I got my AA.
KCK was the younger sibling to Kansas City, Missouri, which had the airport, the baseball and football teams, the convention centers, and everything else that brought people into a city—and made them want to stay.
So why did I, Hollis Brannigan, leave and end up in Los Angeles several months ago?
It was because of my best friend since third grade, Brittany Maxwell. Actually, it was Brittany’s boyfriend Toby. No, really, it was the chick who came on to Toby at the Hero’s Bar and Grill and made him forget all about Brittany—until she caught them making out in the back hallway next to the ladies restroom.
It wasn’t pretty.
Brittany decided she’d had it with Toby. They’d dated since they were freshmen in high school and if his head could be turned that easily when he thought she wasn’t looking, well, Brittany said it was time for a change.
Two days later we were in my Chevy Malibu headed for the bright lights of Tinseltown. Brittany had been in pageants since she was three years old and knew she could make it in Hollywood. And me, well, things being what they were at my house, I was glad to go, too.
Brittany said that since I was tall—compared to her I’m a giant—I could easily land a movie deal too, but thought I should dye my auburn hair bright red because she’d noticed that in People magazine a lot of the young starlets had hair that color. Brittany was my best friend and I loved her to death, but when it came to giving out advice I questioned her judgment—her long-term relationship with that dirt bag Toby being a perfect example. I stuck with auburn.
Brittany and I found an apartment to share and eked out a living working as movie extras, waitresses, and servers for restaurants and catering companies. Things happened—things always happen—and Brittany ended up returning to KCK with Toby.
He’d missed her something terrible—or so he claimed in the zillion phone and text messages he’d sent starting the day we left KCK—and finally showed up at our apartment begging Brittany to go back home with him. I guess it was for the best. Brittany’s dreams of making it big in Hollywood hadn’t materialized, and she wasn’t all that crazy about the L.A. traffic, the crowds, and the glimpses of a lifestyle she’d love to have but saw no way of getting.
If it hadn’t been for the night I spent with Bob Seger, I’d have gone with them.
Instead, I maxed out my last credit card to buy an awesome business suit at Neiman Marcus so I could apply for the job in the investigations department at Fisher Joyce that I’d heard about from a girl who lived in our apartment building.
I’d figured I was a shoe-in for the position in the investigations department. Back in KCK I’d worked for Beau and Buster’s Used Car Emporium. They were my uncles and, no, those weren’t their real names. We carried our own paper—that’s used-car lingo for financing our customers’ vehicles ourselves—and ever since I was a sophomore in high school I’d been doing everything from checking credit to tracking down people who’d skipped out on their payments.
So I’d gone to Fisher Joyce in a killer outfit, and with what I figured were equally killer credentials, only to be told the position in the investigations department had been filled. Thankfully, my years of reading Cosmo, Elle, Marie Claire, and Mademoiselle magazines while verifying employment, talking to the credit bureau, and hunting down skips, paid off. The woman in H.R. recognized my flair for fashion and offered me the job as a personal shopper.
What can I say? I was desperate for a job—a paycheck, really—so I accepted the position but still had my eye on the investigations department.
I left Macy’s and drove back to Fisher Joyce, and pulled into the underground parking garage. I still had Zella Mason’s khaki, elastic-waist pants and Gloria’s shoes to process, but there was nothing else that required my attention this afternoon. I grabbed the Macy’s bags out of the back and relinquished the BMW to the valet.
I was supposed to head directly to the package prep room in the shipping department but I spotted Andy Edmund waiting for a car to be brought around for him; he looked thoroughly annoyed.
Andy worked in our investigations department. But believe me, nobody would confuse Andy with one of those hot P.I.s on television.
He was r
eally tall and really thin, with light brown hair he was constantly fussing with. His biggest concern in life seemed to be that he would sustain a wrinkle in one of his expensive suits.
The general feel for Andy was that he was putting in his time, going through the motions as he worked his way up the management food chain. Somebody said he was related to the owner, but I think Andy’s the one who started that rumor, which was really crappy except I do kind of wish I’d thought of it myself. If so, maybe I’d be working in the investigations department instead of buying things I couldn’t keep.
“Hey, Andy,” I said, and walked over.
He tossed back his hair and spared me a look. “Oh. Hollis. Hi.”
Andy was not exactly running over with charm and personality, a failure that, I was sure, would serve him well when he was eventually promoted into a management position.
He shuddered. “I hate this parking garage. The smell is atrocious.”
“Heading out on a case?” I asked.
Honestly, I couldn’t have cared less about Andy, but since he worked in investigations and I wanted to work there too, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to let him see my face.
Hopefully he’ll have been promoted to another department by the time I get there.
“Yes, unfortunately,” Andy said, and smoothed down his tie. He glared at the attendants in the valet booth. “I don’t know why it takes this long to get a car.”
I’m sure the attendants heard him and chose to ignore his comment—just like they surely dragged their feet every time Andy wanted a car.
That’s what I would have done.
“It’s just the most ridiculous thing,” he declared and waved the portfolio in his hand. “Some rich bitch in Hancock Park lost her dog.”
When Fisher Joyce came up with their motto “Almost Anything for Absolutely Anyone,” they weren’t kidding.
“I hate dogs,” Andy said and uttered a disgusted grunt. “I hate cats, too.”