Shop Til You Drop Dead (A Hollis Brannigan Mystery)

by Dorothy Howell

  Her gaze fell onto Gizmo sitting at my feet. She stared, squinted, and a tiny smile curled her lips.

  “Well, who have we here?” she asked.

  “This is Gizmo.”

  Gizmo wagged her tail.

  “Well now, aren’t you a cute little thing,” Carlotta crooned. She looked at me again. “I didn’t know you had a dog.”

  “She’s not mine.” I drew in a big determined breath. “She’s yours.”

  “What?”

  “You spend too much time alone, Carlotta. Gizmo needs a home and you need a roommate.”

  If anyone ever needed someone in her life, it was Carlotta. She’d been in my thoughts a lot. I felt bad for grabbing that black beaded gown out of her hand and storming out. Because now I understood her, thanks to Edith Bagley. I was pretty sure I knew why Carlotta had taken a year off from her acting career, why subsequent roles had been lesser and not as frequent, and why she’d ended up the way she had.

  Carlotta straightened her shoulders. “I’m perfectly fine living the way I do.”

  “Now you’ll be even better, living with Gizmo,” I told her. “Let’s get her settled.”

  I pushed past Carlotta into the foyer. She didn’t stop me.

  “First, I’m going to get you a housekeeper and a gardener,” I said. I’d seen her financials. She could easily afford both.

  Carlotta looked from me to Gizmo, and back at me again.

  “You’re going to take her for walks every day,” I said. “There’s a park not far from here. Take her there and get to know the other mommies. You’ll both like it.”

  Carlotta just stared.

  “And when you see your neighbors, you’ll smile and say hello,” I said.

  A frown crept over her face but I kept talking.

  “They’ll love seeing Gizmo,” I said. “They’ll be friendly. You’ll be friendly in return.”

  Her frown faded.

  “You two can watch television together. You can show her your movies. You can eat together. She likes to cuddle and sleep at the foot of the bed,” I said. “You two will be perfect for each other.”

  I could see from Carlotta’s face that she wasn’t sold on the idea. But I wasn’t finished yet.

  “I’ll come and check on you two.”

  Her eyes widened. “You will?”

  “Every week—a couple of times each week,” I said. “And if you need anything, call me. I’ll come right over.”

  Carlotta studied me for a moment. Finally, she leaned down and eyed Gizmo. She tilted her head to the right; Gizmo did the same. She leaned the other way; Gizmo mimicked her.

  “Do you want to live here?” Carlotta asked.

  Gizmo barked.

  “Well,” Carlotta declared, straightening up. “I guess that settles it.”

  I followed her through the house to the kitchen. It needed a good, deep cleaning, but the sink wasn’t filled with dirty dishes and the trash can wasn’t running over. Through the bay window I saw the rear lawn, overgrown with weeds and shrubs.

  Carlotta followed my gaze. “Maybe … maybe a play area for her would be nice.”

  I couldn’t hold back a big smile. “Think about what you want. We can talk about it when I come back.”

  She nodded.

  I unloaded Gizmo’s food, filled her bowls, and placed them on the mat I’d brought with me. A telephone hung on the wall that had a dial in the center that I’d once seen in a museum. I wrote my name and cell number on a piece of paper and pinned it to the bulletin board beside the phone, alongside yellowed business cards from places that I was sure had gone under years ago.

  I lifted Gizmo into my arms and gave her a hug. She licked my chin.

  Carlotta had never had to take care of anything or anyone before. I hoped I was doing the right thing. In my heart I knew I had to give this a try.

  I held Gizmo out and Carlotta cautiously accepted her.

  “You’ll come if I have a problem?” she asked, shifting Gizmo uncomfortably.

  “Just call. You can count on me.”

  I gave Carlotta a hug—which surprised both of us—patted Gizmo a final time, and left.

  When I got into my car and drove away, my thought was to head to the beach. It was only a few blocks away, and the peace and solitude was what I needed right now. But my cell phone chimed. I fished it from my tote and saw a message from Louise. My excitement spiked, thinking it was a shopping list, finally, and I wasn’t going to lose my job.

  I swung over to the curb and accessed the message. It wasn’t a shopping list. It was about as far from a shopping list as it could get. Louise instructed me to return to Fisher Joyce immediately, but not to come to her office. I was to go directly to the executive department, to the office of Alfred Joyce, the owner.

  ***

  I gave the steering wheel of the BMW a pat as I got out and turned it over to the valet, knowing I’d never drive one of these fine cars for Fisher Joyce again. Up on six, I stopped by the wardrobe department, did a final twirl in the dressing room mirror in the last designer outfit I’d ever wear for the company, then changed into my own clothes.

  The feeling of dread weighed heavily upon me as I headed toward the executive department. It irked me more than a little that Louise didn’t have the guts to fire me herself. My humiliation wouldn’t be complete, it seemed, unless I was given the axe by the owner himself.

  Mentally I reviewed my prospects for the coming weeks. I’d apply for every job, anywhere one came available. I’d contact everyone I knew and ask if they’d heard of an opening somewhere. I had a little money in the bank, but it wouldn’t last long. I might have to give up my apartment. And then what? Maybe Carlotta would let me sleep on her couch—after the cleaning crew came through, of course.

  I realized as I turned down the hallway that none of the options I’d just analyzed involved me returning to KCK.

  The executive department looked much nicer than the rest of the office complex. The carpet was thicker, the artwork better, the furnishings richer. The receptionist I approached did her best to maintain a neutral expression, but I saw the look on her face. She knew why I was there.

  I walked behind her down another hallway to the door with the owner’s name emblazoned on it in gold letters.

  “Mr. Joyce will see you now,” she whispered, then opened the door and hurried back down the hallway.

  I drew a breath, squared my shoulders, and walked in.

  He had a corner office, of course. It was huge, furnished with a desk, a conference table, and a seating group, all of it done in shades of gray and dark blue. Two walls were glass, displaying a floor to ceiling view of Los Angeles.

  Alfred Joyce sat behind his desk, writing on something. He was trim, with a head full of carefully styled white hair, wearing a suit that I was sure cost more than a month’s rent on my apartment that I was no longer going to be able to afford.

  He glanced up and nodded toward one of the chairs in front of his desk.

  “Sit.”

  I didn’t.

  Anger rose inside me.

  Who was he to judge me, after what I’d done, what I’d been through?

  I hadn’t learned to run a house when I was ten, or take care of Quinn, or work for my uncles, or repo a car, or solve Edith Bagley’s murder by backing down. He could fire me, but I didn’t have to take it sitting down. And I certainly didn’t have to go without a fight.

  Another minute passed. He kept writing then glanced up at me, almost as an afterthought. He looked at the chair he’d gestured to, and at me again. I remained standing.

  Mr. Joyce laid his pen aside and sat up.

  “You’re being dismissed today,” he told me.

  The words hit me hard, but I didn’t react.

  “Do you even know who I am?” I asked.

  “Of course.” His gaze darted to something on his desk. “Miss Brannigan. Hollis Brannigan.”

  “Do you fire every employee of the firm, personally?” I aske
d.

  “Only the ones who cause a great deal of problems.” He sat back. “I received notification from our accounting department that Barbara Walker-Pierce had called to inquire about her bill.”

  So that’s what this was really about. I wasn’t being let go because Louise had realized I was doing something other than shopping on company time. It was much bigger than that. No wonder Alfred Joyce was handling my dismissal himself.

  “The head of accounting recognized the name and referred her directly to me,” he said. “We had an … interesting … conversation.”

  “Was Barbara unhappy with my work?”

  He paused, as if my question had interrupted his prepared speech.

  “We don’t have personal shoppers solving murders,” he finally said.

  “Then put me in investigations.”

  Mr. Joyce paused again. “I think you’re missing the point.”

  “With all due respect, I think you’re the one who’s missing the point. I completed all of my personal shopper duties while investigating a murder, pleasing all of my clients, and solving the murder. And this was for a high profile client who’s likely to bring in more business.”

  “You don’t have the qualifications.”

  “I solved the murder with nobody getting hurt, keeping the investigation confidential, and adhering to the client’s wishes. How much more qualified do I need to be?”

  He hesitated, and I could see he was considering it.

  I let a few seconds pass then said, “I’ll start in investigations right away.”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “In view of the glowing report from Mrs. Walker-Pierce, you can stay—as a personal shopper,” he said.

  I wanted to push it, but thought better of it. At least I still had a job, and the possibility of transferring to investigations sometime in the future was always there.

  “Report to the hospitality department. Louise will be notified.” He turned back to his desk.

  He might have expected me to thank him for allowing me to keep my job, but I couldn’t do it. I left his office and saw Dan waiting for me outside the reception area. I didn’t know how he’d found out I was here, but I was glad to see a friendly face.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “I still have my job, but he refused to transfer me to investigations,” I told him, and my temper shot up again. “He knew what I’d accomplished with Edith’s investigation, but he wouldn’t budge.”

  “You want me to kill him?”

  “What? No!”

  “Maybe just wing him?”

  “No.”

  “A flesh wound?”

  “Okay, let me think about that a minute.”

  Dan grinned and I burst out laughing.

  “You did a hell of a job solving that case,” he said.

  “I couldn’t have done it without you,” I said.

  Dan’s smile turned a little mischievous. “Maybe we’ll team up again one day.”

  “Maybe.”

  My cell phone rang. I hoped it was Louise calling to give me a shopping order. But when I looked at the caller ID screen I didn’t recognize the number so I figured it was one of my off-listers calling me direct.

  “Hello? Is this Miss Brannigan? Miss Hollis Brannigan?” a woman asked when I answered. Her voice shook, which made me think she was elderly.

  “Yes. What can I help you with?”

  “My name is Jacqueline Vance,” the woman said. “A dear friend of mine gave me your number.”

  “Who is your friend?”

  “Mrs. Walker-Pierce, Barbara Walker-Pierce,” she said. “I’m calling regarding a matter that is quite delicate, you understand. Discretion is essential. Barbara highly recommended you.”

  Stunned, I couldn’t answer.

  “I’m rather desperate for the right sort of person to handle this situation,” she said. “Barbara was quite insistent that I contact you, only you.”

  I glanced back down the hallway at the executive department and thought about that pompous Alfred Joyce and his proclamation. Farther along the hallway was investigations, making me think of my sister. Edith Bagley and Barbara Walker-Pierce, and what I’d done for them, came to mind.

  “Hello? Miss Brannigan? Will you help me? Please?”

  “Sure,” I said into the phone. “I’ll be right there.”

  * * *

  Dear Reader:

  I hope you enjoyed meeting my newest sleuth Hollis Brannigan in this novel.

  You’re cordially invited to check out the books in my Haley Randolph mystery series. Haley is an event planner to the stars who’s obsessed with handbag—and solving murders.

  You might also like my Dana Mackenzie mystery series featuring an amateur sleuth who takes on the faceless corporation she works for while solving murders.

  If you’re up for adding a little romance to your life, I also write historical romance novels under the pen name Judith Stacy.

  More information is available at DorothyHowellNovels.com and JudithStacy.com. Stay up to date by visiting my Facebook page DorothyHowellNovels. You can also check out my Instagram page DorothyHowellNovels.

  Thanks for adding my books to your library and recommending me to your friends and family.

  Happy reading!

  Dorothy

  AUTHOR BIO:

  Dorothy Howell is the USA Today Best Selling author of 44 novels. She writes the Haley Randolph and the Dana Mackenzie mysteries series, and writes historical romance novels under the pen name Judith Stacy. Her books have been translated into dozens of languages with millions sold worldwide. Dorothy lives with her family in Southern California.

  Here’s a sneak peek at Messenger Bags and Murder, a Haley Randolph mystery novella.

  Event planner to the stars Haley Randolph reluctantly accepts the assignment of staging a wedding reception—for a reality TV show! But when the show turns out to be Brides on a Budget, Haley is horrified to learn she must obey the demands of the bridal party—no matter how tacky, convoluted, and horrendous.

  For better or for worse, Haley must salvage the hideous reception and stop a murderer before “until death do us part” becomes more than a wedding vow!

  Chapter One of Messenger Bags and Murder

  “He said what?” Marcie screamed.

  I pulled my cell phone away from my ear, not surprised by her reaction—the only reaction possible from my BFF.

  “Oh, my God, you’re kidding me,” she went on. “You’re totally kidding me. Tell me you’re kidding me.”

  I didn’t bother answering because I knew she wasn’t ready to hear anything more—that’s how huge the news was that I’d just shared with her.

  I was walking down the hallway toward the office of L.A. Affairs where I, Haley Randolph, with my I-look-smart-because-I’m-a-brunette dark hair, and my long they’re-the-only-thing-I-inherited-from-my-beauty-queen-mom pageant legs, worked as an event planner. It was Monday morning and, somehow, I was actually running a little ahead of schedule.

  Weird, especially for a Monday.

  “I don’t believe this,” Marcie ranted. “I absolutely do not believe this.”

  The hallway was crowded with well-dressed men and women juggling briefcases, messenger bags, handbags, totes, and coffee in to-go cups, everybody scrambling to get wherever they were going. The building was located on the fashionable corner of Sepulveda and Ventura in prestigious Sherman Oaks, one of Los Angeles’s most sought-after locations. Everybody seemed anxious to get to their desk, hunker down, and surge into the week with renewed vigor.

  Except for me.

  But I had a good excuse.

  I heard Marcie draw a huge breath and let it out slowly, a sign that she was winding down.

  “Okay,” she said. “We’ve got to get together tonight. I have to hear everything. Everything.”

  “I’ll text you,” I promised.

  We ended the call as I pushed through the door of L.A. Affairs bracing myself,
as usual, for the ridiculous are you ready to party chant our receptionist Mindy always hit me with as if I were a potential client, not an employee. I kept my head down, determined to ignore her, but when I didn’t hear anything I glanced up. A woman I’d never seen before sat behind the reception desk.

  Okay, that was weird. Mindy had never—ever—missed a day of work.

  Tempted as I was to ask what the heck was going on, I decided to just roll with it. It was Monday, I was early, and I’d just shared colossal news with Marcie. I didn’t think I could take anything else right now.

  I headed past the client interview rooms and the cube farm, then turned down the hallway where the offices and conference room were located, and went into my private office. I loved my office—neutral furniture with splashes of blue and yellow, and huge windows that offered a great view of the Galleria shopping center across the street.

  It was a new day, a new week, abounding with new opportunities. Conscientious workers all over the world would immediately dig in, get organized, set priorities, and formulate a plan for the day.

  I wasn’t one of those people.

  I dropped my handbag—a classic Chanel satchel I’d paired with my even-on-a-Monday-I-dress-to-kill black business suit—in the bottom drawer of my desk and headed for the breakroom. But before I’d taken two steps I spotted a large sheet of paper taped to my computer screen, with something written on it in red marker.

  Okay, that was weird.

  Weird, even for a Monday.

  I looked closer. Report to my office immediately, was printed in huge block letters, the last word underlined three times. It was signed by Priscilla.

  Priscilla was the office manager.

  Okay, that was really weird.

  She wanted me front and center with such urgency that she hadn’t sent a text, a DM, an email, or left me a voice mail? She’d actually handwritten a sign, walked to my office, and taped it to my computer? First thing? On a Monday morning?