Shop Til You Drop Dead (A Hollis Brannigan Mystery)

by Dorothy Howell

  I flipped to the address book and saw that all of their contact info—addresses and phone numbers—was listed.

  Edith had surely done business with these firms for years, and they were bound to have all kinds of information about her. But would they give it to me?

  Not likely.

  What they were likely to do was call Fisher Joyce and demand to know, even if Barbara called ahead—something I wasn’t sure she would do—why I was asking questions about their long-time client who’d recently passed away, which wouldn’t do my investigation or my chances of remaining employed, any good.

  I glanced up at the valet booth. The three lawyers were still waiting.

  Meredith popped into my head. With the list of information I’d asked her to check into this morning I’d included requests for the police report made by the neighbor who’d spotted the strange car in the neighborhood, and the report from the home security company who’d answered the alarm at Edith’s house.

  Not that I wasn’t up for a challenge—even this one—but I found myself hoping that after I read those two reports I’d find something that indicated Edith had not been murdered.

  I really hoped she’d passed quietly in her sleep.

  I accessed my e-mail and saw that Meredith had sent the file. I scrolled through the information and found the police report about the neighbor’s complaint that a strange car had been parked on the street near Edith’s home. I checked the date and saw that the incident occurred a week before her death.

  According to the police officer who’d taken the report at the scene, the witnesses stated that the vehicle was an older model Mustang, although it could have been a Camaro, or something similar in size to a Mustang or a Camaro, or maybe it was an import. The sun was going down so it was hard to tell whether it was blue or black, or some other dark color. It had a dent in the left—or maybe it was the right—front fender, or maybe it was just a shadow that made it look like a dent. The driver had been wearing a ball cap and sunglasses, and was probably alone in the vehicle. The witness hadn’t been able to get the license plate number.

  I mentally pictured the police officer thanking him for the information, promising to increase patrols, and walking away rolling his eyes.

  So much for my hope that I’d find something to convince myself that Edith hadn’t been murdered.

  I glanced up from my phone. The three lawyers were huddled together, smiling and chatting, probably fantasizing over some rock star client they’d just signed who was known for his run-ins with the law thus bestowing them thousands of billable hours.

  No sign of the valet with a car for them yet.

  I read the other information Meredith had included in the file. The documents included copies of Edith’s birth certificate and marriage license, and a property profile from a title company stating she was the owner of the June Street house. No mention of any children. Her credit report indicated she had no mortgage, no car payment, two Visa accounts with zero balances, and an excellent payment history dating back several decades.

  All pretty routine stuff.

  Meredith had also included info on Edith’s banking, stocks, and investment portfolio. My eyes bugged out. Edith had been loaded. Multi-millions that had grown steadily during the previous five years the report covered.

  Edith must have had a solid, cautious financial adviser, probably the same guy she’d gone to see the week of her death whose appointment I’d seen on her calendar. Likely, he’d been looking after her money dating back to the time before her husband Conrad died.

  The only thing that jumped out at me was a hundred-grand hit her portfolio had taken a month ago. I wondered what she’d bought with that much cash. I hoped she’d partied hearty with it—especially after the way things had gone only a few weeks later.

  From everything I’d seen, heard, and read about Edith, she was a conservative woman with a conservative lifestyle who’d spent most of her time, money, and effort helping other people through her charitable endeavors. I hadn’t seen, heard, or read anything about Edith that indicated anyone had a motive for murdering her.

  I glanced up from my phone in time to see the lawyers piling into a Mercedes, then turned my attention to the final item in the report, the info Meredith had gotten from Edith’s home security company. It stated pretty much what Barbara had already told me—they’d responded to an alarm that was caused by old equipment, which they recommended be replaced.

  A BMW drove up. Trent got out and waved me over

  “Heading out again?” he asked, and opened the car’s doors for me as I approached.

  “Fashion never stops,” I said.

  I draped Carlotta’s garment bag in the back of the Beemer, then slid in behind the wheel.

  “Stay safe,” Trent said as he closed my door.

  “Where’s the fun in that?” I asked.

  He grinned and I took off. At the top of the ramp, I punched Carlotta Cain’s address into the GPS unit and headed out.

  Traffic crawled as I merged onto the southbound 110 but I was okay with it since I needed some time to think—no, really, I needed to talk myself down from the panic that was seeping into my brain.

  None of the information I’d uncovered helped my investigation. How was I going to find out what—if anything—had happened to Edith Bagley? How was I going to explain my lack of progress to Barbara tonight when she called for a report?

  And how was I going to continue to live in Los Angeles after she complained to Fisher Joyce and I got fired?

  Merging west onto the 10 freeway I forced myself to calm down. After all, nothing bad had happened yet—except for Edith’s possible murder, that is—and I was, in fact, making progress in the case.

  I drew in a big breath. A plan popped into my head. I would dash into Carlotta Cain’s home, drop off the dress, then find a place to hunker down and go over everything I’d learned, and decide what action to take next.

  I always felt better when I had a plan.

  The GPS eventually led me north on Lincoln Boulevard. As I made the turn onto Montana Avenue, my cell phone chimed. I whipped over to the curb and dug it out of my tote.

  “Damn,” I muttered, when I saw that it was a text message from Louise leading off with “911,” a reminder that I lived in Los Angeles, one of the few places where there could actually be a fashion emergency.

  I read the message. One of my off-listers—I remembered buying for her only once—needed a dress to wear to dinner tonight at the home of a movie producer.

  I accessed her file and skimmed her bio. She was an actress who’d put everything on hold six years ago to have children. Now, it seemed, she wanted to get back into the spotlight and needed a killer dress to re-ignite her career.

  My afternoon had become crowded. I had to hurry things along if I was going to have something to report to Barbara this evening.

  I scrolled through my phone list, called my contact at Nordstrom, and told her what I needed. She promised to pull some dresses and have them waiting when I arrived.

  I headed down Montana Avenue toward Carlotta’s house again, more anxious than ever to get this errand over with.

  This section of L.A. was called North of Montana, one of the most upscale areas in Santa Monica. The homes and the lots on which they sat were large and expensive, priced in the multi-million dollar range.

  Amid the newer, upscale houses were small homes built decades ago, lived in by owners who were probably old and content with their circumstances. No doubt, their heirs were waiting for their demise so they could pocket a fortune they hadn’t earned by selling out to buyers who’d raze the house and construct their own mini-mansion.

  I swung into the driveway of Carlotta Cain’s home. The house was a small white stucco with red shutters and a blue door faded by time and the sun. The shrubs were overgrown. What had probably once been flowers drooped over the sides of stone planters. There were brown patches in the grass.

  I flipped open the portfolio Meredith
had prepared for me on Carlotta. There wasn’t much to read. She owned the house, lived alone, and had no close relatives. She’d been an actress with moderate success, several decades ago.

  Maybe she was mounting a comeback, like the other actress I was shopping for later today.

  Meredith hadn’t dug any deeper than this cursory information, but for a two-hundred dollar gown, it was enough.

  I fetched the garment bag from the back and headed up the cracked sidewalk toward the house. My cell phone rang as I hit the doorbell. Meredith’s name popped up on the caller ID screen.

  “Great news,” she said, when I answered.

  “Let me have it,” I said, because, really, I could use some good news.

  “I found the dog,” she said.

  “You—what?”

  “The missing dog. Gizmo,” she said. “I found her.”

  I opened my mouth but nothing came out.

  “I was really worried about the poor little thing so I checked all the animal shelters in the area,” Meredith said. “And I found her. You can go pick her up right now.”

  Chapter 8

  “Well, don’t just stand there, come inside.”

  The woman glaring at me from the doorway made me realize I was standing on the porch holding the garment bag and pressing my cell phone to my ear, completely frozen.

  Meredith had found Gizmo? The non-existent, not-lost, not-missing dog, not-belonging to Barbara Walker-Pierce?

  “I’ll—I’ll call you back,” I said to Meredith. She said something but I hung up.

  “Come in, come in,” the woman insisted as she stepped back from the door.

  “Carlotta Cain?” I asked.

  She drew herself up and lifted her chin to a regal height. “Of course,” she announced, and sounded miffed that I hadn’t known her on sight.

  I figured her for late seventies, nearly six feet tall and rail thin. Her jet black hair was cut in a severe bob, and she had on a jungle print caftan, a dozen colorful bracelets, and rings on most of her fingers. She’d fought the good fight against wrinkles, but time and gravity had taken their toll.

  I stepped into the house and she leaned out, looking up and down the street.

  “The neighbors,” she said, closing the door. “Damn bunch of nosey nobodies. Always watching me. Always staring out their windows.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that, but it was just as well because Carlotta gave me no chance to speak.

  “Come. Come along,” she said, and took off through the foyer, her caftan billowing behind her.

  I followed Carlotta into the living room off to the left and was forced to pause in the arched doorway to let my eyes adjust. Two wall sconces and a chandelier offered feeble light against the heavy brocade drapes that were drawn over the windows. The furniture was square and slim, covered in the orange, green, yellow, and brown earth tones of the 1970s. There were spindly-legged tables, big floral prints, and lots of rattan and wicker.

  Carlotta settled herself in the center of the sofa, spread her arms along the back, and crossed her legs.

  “Sit down, sit down,” she said, and swept her hand toward a chair on the other side of the coffee table.

  I didn’t have time to sit and get acquainted especially since, in addition to everything else I had to accomplish, I also had to do something about Meredith’s report of the non-existent Gizmo at the animal shelter.

  Besides, I wasn’t all that anxious to get to know Carlotta Cain. She wasn’t exactly giving off a warm, friendly vibe. Plus, the room smelled musty and sour. I wanted to throw open those curtains and windows, and let some light and fresh air into the place.

  “Would you like to see your gown?” I asked, holding up the garment bag.

  “Oh, you young girls,” Carlotta grumbled, shaking her head in disgust. “Hurry, hurry. Rush, rush.”

  I couldn’t disagree with her since I was, in fact, rushing and in a hurry.

  “And no manners,” she went on, then glared up at me. “Well, what’s your name?”

  She had me on that, too.

  I introduced myself.

  “Sit down,” Carlotta exclaimed, pointing at the chair. “You are in your client’s home, not one of those disgusting fast-food drive-throughs. Sit.”

  I sat.

  She adjusted herself on the sofa, tugged at her bracelets, smoothed down her caftan and drew in a breath. “Now, Miss Brannigan, tell me about yourself.”

  While I didn’t have time for this, I knew it was quicker to go along with what she wanted—plus, she wouldn’t have reason to call Fisher Joyce and complain about me.

  I gave her the short version of my background, where I was from and that I’d moved to L.A. recently.

  “Drawn here by the bright lights of Hollywood,” Carlotta said, nodding wisely. “Wanted to be an actress? Make your mark in movies or television?”

  “It was my friend Tiffany’s idea,” I said.

  “You young girls. You have it so easy now.” Carlotta’s gaze drifted away, into the dimness of her stuffy, airless living room. “In my day things were different, quite different. There were standards, expectations. The studios brooked none of this nonsense of today.”

  She continued to stare across the room, her gaze fixed on nothing, seemingly re-living the standards and expectations of yesteryear.

  I didn’t want to be rude, or any ruder than she’d already accused me of being, but I really had to get on with my day.

  “Would you like to see your gown?” I asked, making an effort to sound as if I had standards and met expectations.

  “What?” Carlotta turned back to me, looking slightly dazed and unfocused.

  “Your gown.” I rose from my chair, lifted the garment bag, unzipped it and let it fall to the floor, then held up the dress on its hanger. “What do you think?”

  She gave it a glance, tilted her head left, then right, and said, “No. No, that won’t do. I need a gown with sleeves.”

  There’d been no mention of sleeve-length when she’d contacted the office, but that wasn’t unusual. It did, however, add to the difficulty of locating a gown that wouldn’t exceed her two-hundred dollar budget.

  “Is there anything else about the dress you don’t like?” I asked, so I wouldn’t find myself in this situation again. “Something different you want?”

  Carlotta glanced at the dress again, but didn’t say anything.

  “Is it for an event?” I asked. “A special occasion?”

  None of this information had been included in Carlotta’s initial request, but it always helped me make selections and recommendations.

  She cut her gaze to me, but still didn’t speak.

  “I could send you some pictures of dresses,” I offered, as I drew the garment bag over the gown again. “Some of my clients prefer to narrow down the choices—”

  “Impossible,” Carlotta declared and pursed her lips distastefully. “All of this so-called technology. Appalling.”

  I’d forgotten her initial contact with Fisher Joyce had indicated she had no cell phone or computer.

  “Bring me something different.” Carlotta sprang to life again, rising from the sofa, tossing her hair, her bracelets clanging as she waved a dismissive hand at the gown.

  “When will you need it?” I asked, as I zipped the garment bag and picked up my tote.

  “Soon,” Carlotta said, nodding wisely. “Very soon, I should think.”

  I followed her through the house to the foyer.

  “I’ll bring more dresses for you to look at as soon as I can,” I told her.

  Carlotta opened the front door and leaned out, looked up and down the street, then jumped back inside.

  “It’s safe for you to go,” she whispered. “Just be careful.”

  She caught my arm and leaned closer. “Listen to me, Hollis, listen to me. Those studio people, they’re only after one thing. Be on guard. Stay vigilant.”

  There was a wild look in her eyes that, had she not been so old and f
rail, might have startled me.

  “I will,” I said.

  As soon as I cleared the threshold, the door slammed shut behind me.

  ***

  I’d been to Nordstrom so many times I didn’t need my GPS to get there. I headed east on the 10, made the transition onto the 405, then crept along crowded Pico Boulevard to the Westside Pavilion shopping center. I found a parking space easily enough in the underground garage, and took the escalator up to Nordstrom.

  Loni, my contact in the women’s clothing department, spotted me immediately. She was probably in her forties, tall, trim, elegantly attired, though it was obvious she knew better than to outshine her customers. There was a competent air about her that inspired confidence, an important quality when selling ultra-expensive clothing to clients who were usually on top of fashion trends.

  “I pulled three dresses,” Loni said.

  She led the way off the sales floor to a section of the store not seen by everyday shoppers, a salon where the wealthy or well connected made their selections in private. The sumptuous carpeting and furniture were white, and a small raised platform was backed by an array of mirrors allowing a client to view herself from multiple angles, or sit comfortably while one of the Nordstrom staff modeled the clothing.

  “Thanks for the rush on this,” I said.

  “Happy to do it,” she told me, which I’m sure she was, since working with Fisher Joyce gave a nice bump to her commission.

  The three dresses she’d selected were hanging on a rack, each of them black, cocktail length, and sexy. I looked them over, recalling not only what my client had requested, but the client herself. I didn’t want to insult Loni by giving her the impression I didn’t like the dresses she’d pulled, but my reputation was on the line. Luckily, I loved them all.

  “They’re perfect,” I told her, as I fished my cell phone out of my tote. “I’ll see what she says.”

  I Facetimed my client. She was getting her hair done.

  After a cursory look at each dress she shouted, “Send them all,” over the roar of the dryer.