Shop Til You Drop Dead (A Hollis Brannigan Mystery)

by Dorothy Howell

  Too bad it couldn’t have been that easy with Carlotta.

  As Loni zipped the dresses into garment bags, I said, “I need a gown for another client. Black, size four—with sleeves.”

  “Of course, I have several—”

  “For less than two hundred dollars.”

  “Oh.”

  She didn’t seem terribly thrown by my request—she’d dealt with her share of screwball clients—and thought for a few seconds but, of course, came up with nothing.

  “If you see something that’s close, please let me know,” I said, and passed her my Fisher Joyce credit card.

  “I will,” Loni promised.

  I signed away a big chunk of someone else’s money, and left.

  ***

  The shipping department at Fisher Joyce was used to rush deliveries—for some reason, wealthy people can’t seem to plan ahead—so getting the three little black dresses sent out immediately was routine. I packaged them, handled the paperwork, and handed them off, confident there would be no problems.

  I wished I felt as confident about Edith Bagley’s murder investigation.

  Riding up in the elevator I did a quick calculation, estimating how late in the day I could put off contacting Barbara Walker-Pierce with the update she’d demanded, an update that would have very little information in it, at the rate I was going.

  The elevator doors opened on the sixth floor and I got out. I needed to go to my cubicle and spend some time on the phone and internet searching for a dress that would meet Carlotta’s specifications in her price range. But all I could think about was finding someplace more private and going through Edith’s appointment book again. It was the best option I had at the moment to find some useful information.

  As I walked past the receptionist’s desk, I thought about ducking into one of the client interview rooms but didn’t. Louise needed to see my face and know that I was working—well, that I was in the office.

  I knew I was going to have to push further, go deeper than simply reviewing Edith’s appointments again. While I’d already decided her lawyer and accountant wouldn’t talk to me, I knew there were other people who would. I just had to find them, convince them not to slam the door in my face, get them to open up—and accomplish all of this without anyone at Fisher Joyce getting wind of what I was doing.

  As I was giving myself a mental pep talk, fighting off thoughts of lives being ruined—mainly mine—I turned the corner and headed for my cubicle.

  Dan Kincaid blocked the doorway.

  I froze.

  He leaned against the door-frame, arms folded over his chest, ankles crossed.

  “So,” he said. “What were you really doing at Edith Bagley’s house on June Street?”

  Chapter 9

  Here’s where years spent working at a used car lot came in handy.

  The art of the bluff, keeping a straight face, giving away nothing. I’d seen my uncles Beau and Buster do it countless times when dealing with a customer attempting to talk them down on a price, or when they were trying to unload a junker.

  Not to mention, of course, all the times I’d comforted my sister Quinn with assurances that Mom would be home soon, that she would in fact return home, that she hadn’t forgotten to pick us up, she was simply running late.

  I looked up at Dan and said, “I was doing my job.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Shopping? For a dead woman?”

  “Yes.”

  I’m also one hell of a poker player.

  I walked past him, but I was trembling inside.

  Oh my God, Dan Kincaid—the company fixer, the man rumored to have actually killed people—had followed up. He’d checked out my story.

  And he knew I was lying.

  I felt his gaze on me as I threaded my way through the cubicle maze. I didn’t dare look back.

  When I reached my desk, I collapsed into my chair. My heart pounded, waiting to see if Dan followed me, if he would call me out right here in front of everyone. After a couple of minutes, I got to my feet and scanned the room. No sign of him.

  I felt like I’d dodged a bullet—for now.

  I dropped into my chair again and pulled Edith’s appointment book from my tote bag. Not another minute could be wasted. I had to find a new lead that would move the investigation forward before the whole thing blew up in my face.

  Flipping through the pages, I thought again how unlikely it was that Edith’s friends or professional acquaintances would talk to me. Still, there had to be somebody who would. Somebody who knew what was going on with her—

  A name jumped off the page.

  What was the matter with me? Why hadn’t I thought of him already?

  I dashed off a text message to Louise explaining that I was leaving to shop for Carlotta Cain’s gown, grabbed my things and headed for the elevator. I kept an eye out for Dan. There was a chance Andy Edmund might think of something other than himself and ask me about the missing dog investigation, so I watched for him, too. I made it to the elevator unnoticed, got a BMW from the valet in the parking garage, punched in the address of the Courtesy Car Service I’d found in Edith’s appointment book, and headed out.

  Genevieve, Edith’s housekeeper, had mentioned that declining health had caused her to cut back on staff, and that her longtime chauffer had gone to work for a car service. I drove to Courtesy Car Service on Fairfax Avenue just off the 10, in the hope of catching Ike Meador.

  The lot was crowded with Town Cars, luxury SUVs, and limos. Vehicles and uniformed drivers were coming and going. Two garage bays were open, one with a Cadillac sedan on the lift. I squeezed into the last available spot near the office and went inside.

  While the company catered to executives and celebrities, their office did not. The flooring was scarred, the vinyl chairs were cracked, and the place smelled of oil, fuel, and coffee left too long in the pot.

  The man behind the counter had a landline phone receiver wedged between his shoulder and ear. He looked up from the jumble of papers piled up around him and spared me a quick glance.

  The way I was dressed, he probably thought I was selling something.

  “I’m looking for Ike,” I told him.

  He eased back a little.

  Now he probably thought I was a bill collector.

  I walked closer. “I work for one of his clients, Edith Bagley. She died.”

  He pulled the phone away from his ear and frowned. “Damn. Too bad. She was a good customer.”

  He grabbed the mike at his elbow, made an announcement, and a few minutes later a guy I figured was Ike Meador walked through the door. He was small, thin, gray-haired and slightly stoop-shouldered, dressed in a black suit and tie, a white shirt, and wore a chauffer’s cap.

  He glanced at me, and froze.

  Maybe he was expecting a bill collector.

  “I’m working for Barbara Walker-Pierce,” I said, and introduced myself. “I’m here about Edith Bagley.”

  Ike’s frown deepened. “I heard … I heard she’d passed.”

  “I need to talk to you,” I said, and nodded toward the door. “Outside, maybe?”

  “Well … all right,” he said.

  Ike opened the door for me, and we walked to a shady spot at the corner of the building.

  “Miss Edith … Miss Edith was a fine woman,” he said, shaking his head. “A lady. A real lady. Not too many of them left nowadays.”

  Ike was slow and measured in his walk and his speech. Driving elderly ladies around suited him.

  I couldn’t tell him why I was asking him for information so I went with the most plausible explanation available, one grounded in truth.

  “Mrs. Walker-Pierce is planning a memorial service,” I said. “She’s hoping for a good turnout.”

  Genevieve told me Barbara would invite close friends and family. I had no idea whether that included Ike. He seemed unsure himself.

  Ike nodded thoughtfully. “Sure …sure.”

  “I have a list of Mrs. Bagley�
�s business contacts and close friends, but I thought you might know of other people who should be invited,” I said. “I understand you’re the only driver she used?”

  “That’s right. Me. Only me.”

  “Was there a place you took her regularly?

  “I took her lots of places. Wherever she wanted to go. Sometimes she just wanted to drive around, have a look at things. Didn’t matter to her that the neighborhood was … well, not the kind of place you’d expect a lady like her to go. But Miss Edith, she liked to stay in touch with what you’d call, well, I guess you’d call them regular folks. Places where she could help out financially. You know what I mean?”

  “I know she was involved in a number of charitable causes,” I said. “But was there any place specific?”

  “She’d have me drive her all the way out to Pasadena.” Ike shook his head. “Had me drive her out there, often. She liked the neighborhood, I guess. Kept going back. Never stopped, just kept driving.”

  Ike seemed lost in the memories, so I said, “Was there a favorite restaurant? A shop? A friend’s place?”

  Ike thought for a long minute, and said, “I took her to get her hair done. She had a regular appointment for that. Used the same girl for years. Miss Edith was loyal like that.”

  He paused, looked down at his feet, then gazed at me again and said, “Vista, of course.”

  I’d seen nothing under that name in her address book.

  “Vista Village,” Ike said. “Retirement home off LaBrea.”

  Edith was checking out a retirement home? Genevieve had told me that the stairs in her house were becoming too much for her to manage. She must have felt confined, living in only her bedroom and on the small balcony. A retirement home seemed the next logical step in life’s wind-down.

  Also, it explained the hundred-grand she’d taken out of her bank. I didn’t know anything about retirement homes, but I figured that pre-paying expenses was an option and, perhaps, a way to insure premium accommodations and care.

  “Did Mrs. Bagley say when she planned to move in?” I asked.

  “Move?” Ike frowned at me. “Oh, no. No. It wasn’t nothing like that. Miss Edith was visiting people.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’d walk her inside, make sure she got there okay, got settled. Then I’d wait in the car. That girl who worked there … Lisa … yeah, Lisa was her name, she’d come out, tell me when she was ready to leave. Or sometimes, it was that fella, that fella … Gil … no, Phil, yeah, Phil.” Ike’s expression clouded. “I didn’t like leaving her in there like that. But it was what she wanted. And I guess, well, I guess there wasn’t anything wrong with it. Everybody there knew who Miss Edith was. Everybody watched out for her.”

  “She visited often?”

  “She went there every couple of weeks, more often if she was up to it.” Ike frowned. “Now, listen, I’m pretty sure somebody already told Sadie about Miss Edith’s passing, but maybe not. So when you go over there telling everybody about the memorial service, don’t spring it on her.”

  “Sadie?”

  Ike drew back a little, looking at me suspiciously now. “You don’t know Sadie? You work for the family and you don’t know Sadie?”

  “I’m new,” I said. “I just started a few days before all of this happened.”

  He seemed okay with my explanation and said, “Sadie is Genevieve’s mama.”

  It clicked with me then.

  “Genevieve told me her mother had worked for Mrs. Bagley for years, and had gotten her the job there.”

  “Miss Edith, she takes care of her people, not like at this place,” Ike said, then threw a sour look at the office. “She visited, and she paid for Sadie’s care. You don’t find that anymore. No, you don’t. And not just for Sadie. I heard that Miss Edith took care of other people, too, and made donations to the place, though she’d never say so herself.”

  “She sounds like a really nice lady,” I said.

  “She was. She was.” Ike drew in a breath. “I do miss her.”

  “I’ll let you know about the memorial service,” I promised, then thanked him and headed for my car.

  I had a new lead, the retirement home. But I couldn’t see how anyone there would want Edith dead, especially if she was footing the bill for their care and making donations.

  Add that onto the heap of other things I hadn’t figured out yet—what she’d spent that hundred-grand on, where the money and handgun in her secret room had come from, and if, in fact, Edith had been murdered.

  As I dropped in behind the wheel, my cell phone chimed. I looked at the ID screen. Barbara Walker-Pierce was calling.

  Great.

  ***

  Pro-One Security was located on Olympic Boulevard. The door was propped open and no one was there when I walked in.

  So much for security.

  The company had, however, gone to some length to scare the bejesus out of anybody who came in. Framed posters on the walls detailed the horrific tragedies that could befall a Los Angeles homeowner—violent property invasion, injury or death to loved ones, loss of irreplaceable valuables. These grim possibilities were supported with color-coded graphs and charts detailing statistics on gang activity and the probability of becoming a crime victim, broken down by neighborhood.

  Other posters boasted Pro-One’s 24/7 protection packages that included motion sensors and systems that monitored intruder activity and alerted law enforcement. This peace of mind could currently be had at a twenty-percent discount through the end of the month.

  I guess even L.A.’s wealthy couldn’t resist a good markdown.

  According to the report Meredith had given me that had been generated by Pro-One after the alarm on Edith’s rear window was activated in the week before her death, the technician who’d done the inspection was a guy named Zach. I needed to talk to him and get a better feel for what he’d seen that day. Maybe then I could return Barbara’s phone call that earlier I’d let go to voicemail.

  A minute later, a guy in a gray Dickies uniform came out of the backroom and positioned himself behind a glass case displaying security gadgets. He looked neat, clean, and well groomed, the kind of guy a homeowner would be comfortable with. The name on his shirt wasn’t “Zach.”

  I introduced myself and said, “I’m working for Edith Bagley.”

  “Edith Bagley, of course,” he said, nodding. “Great customer. She’s been with us for a long time.”

  Apparently, he didn’t know Edith had died—which I’m sure was no reflection on the security service Pro-One provided.

  “Zach was at her house recently,” I said. “I’d like to speak with him about her security system.”

  He took me at my word—which, again, I’m sure was no reflection on Pro-One’s security measures but rather his eagerness to sell a new system—and disappeared into the back room.

  While I waited, I entertained myself reading a poster that detailed the likelihood a home would be robbed in Los Angeles, as compared to other areas of California and the rest of the country. These disturbing statistics were offset by yet another sign offering bonus features with the purchase of a complete system that included carbon monoxide and upgraded smoke detectors, and the irresistible medical alert lanyards perk.

  “Can I help you?”

  I spun around and saw a different guy in a gray Dickies uniform, this one with the name “Zach” embroidered on his shirt. He was probably a little older than me, kind of handsome, with dark hair and a good build. There was a casual air about him that made me think he might be killing time at Pro-One until something better came along.

  I introduced myself and told him why I was there.

  “Yeah, sure, Mrs. Bagley’s place on June Street,” he said. “There was a problem with one of the window sensors. Told her she ought to get a new system. The one she has is a dinosaur.”

  “What was wrong with the sensor?” I asked.

  “It was old, worn out. It happens.”

  “Do you thin
k somebody was trying to break in?” I asked.

  Zach shrugged. “Hard to say.”

  I let his comment hang between us for a few seconds then said, “You recommended she buy a new system. Was that a standard sales pitch? Or did you see something that struck you as troublesome?”

  He paused, glanced over his shoulder at the back room, then moved in a little closer and lowered his voice.

  “Look, we’re supposed to sell these security systems. Really push them. You get me?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m like, whatever. Buy one, don’t buy one. The commission here sucks,” Zach said. “But I’m not doing a number on an elderly lady, especially one living alone in a big house. I’m not scaring somebody old enough to be my grandma to make a few bucks.”

  Admirable, but there seemed to be something else he was trying to get at.

  “So what happened at Mrs. Bagley’s house?” I asked.

  “Something there wasn’t right,” Zach said. “That sensor didn’t come loose on its own. There were footprints where there shouldn’t have been any, in behind the rose bushes, under the window. The paint was chipped off around the window frame, like somebody had tried to force it open.”

  A feeling of dread came over me.

  “None of that was in your report,” I said.

  “We’re not detectives, we’re technicians. Plus, there are all sorts of liability issues that go along with what we put in writing,” Zach said. “I told Mrs. Bagley what I found.”

  I wondered why Edith hadn’t ordered the new system or, at least, told Barbara what the technician had found. Maybe Edith hadn’t taken him seriously. Maybe she didn’t want to believe him. Maybe she was old, her memory fading, and she simply forgot.

  “Like I said, I’m not pushing a security system on anybody, but she really needs a new one,” Zach told me.

  “That won’t be necessary. She’s dead.”

  Not just dead. Murdered.

  The cash and handgun in the secret room. The strange car on the street. Footprints. Someone disconnecting the security sensor, tampering with the window, trying to force it open.

  Now I was sure Edith Bagley had been killed.