Shop Til You Drop Dead (A Hollis Brannigan Mystery)

by Dorothy Howell

  Yikes!

  Immediately, I launched into full panic mode.

  Oh my God. Oh my God. What was going on? Why was Priscilla apparently on fire to see me? Was I in major trouble?

  My thoughts raced backward. I couldn’t think of anything I’d done wrong—well, okay, there was that one thing. But that was it—no, hang on, there was that other thing, too. But Priscilla couldn’t have found out about them—not this quickly.

  I drew in a few breaths trying to calm myself—I don’t really like being calm—because I couldn’t report to Priscilla’s office this rattled. For a moment I considered grabbing a client portfolio and rushing out on a made-up appointment, but I’m not big on suspense. No way did I want this thing—whatever it was—hanging over my head all day. I was going to march into Priscilla’s office and find out what the heck was going on.

  As soon as I fortified myself with some chocolate and caffeine.

  I hurried to the breakroom. It was crowded with employees—all female, all dressed in magnificent clothing—and wormed my way to the coffee pot on the counter, the office hotspot for gossip, speculation, and hearing—or starting—rumors.

  Conversation flowed around me as I poured myself a cup and pretended this was just an average Monday morning. I didn’t hear anyone mention being called to Priscilla’s office.

  I dumped several sugars into my coffee and hit it with a huge blast of French vanilla creamer, then stood around listening as other employees flowed in and out of the breakroom. Still, no one mentioned anything major going down, or news of a suspected lay-off or someone getting fired, or anyone else getting summoned to Priscilla’s office.

  Oh, my God. Was I the only one?

  Apparently so.

  I finished my coffee but no way was I mentally prepared to face whatever awaited me. I grabbed a package of M&Ms from the snack cabinet, dumped it in my mouth, and left the breakroom.

  The hallway was empty as I headed toward Priscilla’s office. My brain was hopping, thanks to the major chocolate infusion, which was good. No doubt I’d have to mentally bob and weave my way through whatever awaited.

  Up ahead I spotted Kayla, my L.A. Affairs’ BFF. She was about my age—mid-twenties—with dark hair and a curvy figure. We were both event planners, spending our days organizing and executing the these-people-are-nuts events that our clientele of Hollywood insiders, the rich, famous, and power players of Los Angeles, demanded.

  Since Kayla was my BFF, normally I would immediately spout off about being called to Priscilla’s office. But I couldn’t bring myself to say anything—not yet, not until I knew what I was in for. I mean, really, if I was about to be fired I didn’t want that rumor whipping through the office—not until I’d first started the rumor that I’d learned a heinous secret about Priscilla and had resigned on moral grounds.

  “How’s it going?” I said, trying to sound casual.

  “Good,” Kayla said, sounding just as casual. “You?”

  “Great,” I said.

  “I’m great, too,” Kayla insisted.

  We both stood there for a moment until I noticed we were a few feet away from Priscilla’s office. She seemed to realize it at the same instant.

  “Did you get—” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Did you?”

  “Yes! Oh, my God, what’s going on?”

  We were both in high panic mode. Obviously, we were in this together—which was good because that left us the entire office to blame everything on.

  “I have no idea what this is about,” Kayla said.

  “Me either,” I swore. “I haven’t had any problems with anyone or anything.”

  “Neither have I,” she insisted.

  Of course, we were both lying—but it was good practice for when we got into Priscilla’s office.

  Priscilla suddenly appeared in the doorway, her mouth open, drawing in a big breath as if she was readying to yell, then spotted us.

  “Oh. There you are. Come in, come in.” Priscilla waved us forward with both hands.

  She looked awesome, as always, dressed in a terrific suit, her makeup and nails done, her hair in a chic style. I considered her a good office manager, mostly because she left me alone to do my job and usually believed whatever b.s. I found it necessary to bestow upon her. I didn’t know what the heck was up with her today. I’d never seen her this frazzled.

  “Sit down, sit down.” She closed the door behind us.

  Kayla and I dropped into the chairs in front of the desk and exchanged a troubled look. A closed door and an insistence that we sit were not good signs. The only saving grace was that Edie, the Human Resources manager, wasn’t here—not yet, anyway.

  Priscilla curled one leg under her and sat down, leaned forward with both elbows on her desk, and twisted her fingers together. “Something’s come up.”

  It wasn’t her you’re-in-trouble voice, more like the universal someone-has-died voice. I didn’t know whether to be more—or less—upset.

  “This morning, Rachel and Sienna were in a car accident,” Priscilla said.

  Rachel and Sienna were senior event planners with L.A. Affairs. I knew them well enough to make small talk in the breakroom, but that was it.

  Priscilla rushed on. “It was minor—well, somewhat minor. Neither was seriously injured, but both have been taken to the hospital for treatment. This has left us in a lurch.”

  Okay, so obviously this wasn’t something awful directed at me. I wasn’t about to be fired, or reprimanded, or anything. But I did feel kind of weird realizing that I’d never even considered that being called to Priscilla’s office might be something good—which says a lot about the way my life had been going lately.

  “You want Haley and me to take over their events until they get back?” Kayla asked.

  “No.” Priscilla seemed to spin up even more, bobbing up and down in her chair, twisting her fingers harder. “Rachel and Sienna were enroute to HPA, the annual premiere gathering of hospitality industry professionals from across the country. The week-long event is highly exclusive. Only the very best in the field have even a small glimmer of hope that they will be included. Hospitality Professionals of America is extremely prestigious. I don’t know if you’ve heard about it.”

  My senses jumped to high alert. I’d heard rumors of HPA, but I didn’t think it was real, more like a myth. Sort of like Asgard and Atlantis—and four-inch heels that were comfortable.

  “This is the first year L.A. Affairs was extended an invitation.” Priscilla plastered both palms on her desk. “And now this.”

  Kayla and I exchanged another look. I didn’t know where this was going and, apparently, neither did she.

  “It’s imperative that we have a presence at the event. To cancel at this hour ….” Priscilla shook her head. “It’s unthinkable.”

  Hospitality companies lived or died by their reputations. If L.A. Affairs couldn’t manage to get two of their own employees to a conference, how would that look? Everybody would question whether the company was capable to staging high profile events. Word would spread. Other companies and clients would be reluctant to book anything through us. Our image would suffer massively.

  “Therefore …” Priscilla paused, gulped, and drew herself up. “It’s been determined that you two should represent L.A. Affairs at the event.”

  Kayla and I exchanged yet another look, this one a this-is-too-good-to-be-true look.

  “I know, I know,” Priscilla said, twisting her fingers together again. “There are other senior planners here. More experienced. Higher profile planners. But, because of the caliber of events they’re executing at the moment, they can’t possibly attend the conference, can’t possibly be unavailable to their clients for the entire week. So, there is nothing left to do, no other option available, but to send the two of you.”

  Oh my God, I was having my own personal Top Gun moment. Just like Maverick and Goose when they were selected to go to the flying competition after the first guys could
n’t make it, the place where only the best of the best got to go. Kayla and I were in those roles.

  I, of course, was Maverick.

  “HPA is being held at the Severin Retreat and Conference Center near Santa Barbara.” Priscilla leaned forward. “You must—you absolutely must—leave immediately. The launch activities begin this afternoon.”

  “What about our events?” Kayla asked, gesturing to me. “The ones we’re handling for our clients?”

  Okay, like I cared about the parties and luncheons I was organizing when I had a cool opportunity like this?

  No way could I say that, of course.

  “All of my events are handled,” I said, which was true. Actually, I’m really good at this job.

  “Mine, too,” Kayla said. “But what if something comes up? I can’t abandon my clients.”

  “Me, either,” I said. Of course, I could, but I didn’t want to say so.

  “I’ll have another planner monitor the progress and get in touch with you immediately if problems arise.” Priscilla rose from her chair and waved her hand at her computer. “I’ll send you the itinerary and other pertinent information.”

  Kayla and I popped up out of our chairs.

  “We’ll go home, pack, and hit the road,” Kayla said.

  “I’ll expect updates throughout the day, every day, from each of you.” Priscilla turned to me with semi-stink eye. “Each of you.”

  “No problem,” I said.

  I made a move to leave but Priscilla kept staring at us.

  “This is a rare opportunity for L.A. Affairs to move into the upper echelon of the hospitality industry. Let me emphasize again how important HPA is to the future of our company,” Priscilla said, and swallowed hard. “And it’s in your hands.”

  “We won’t let you down,” Kayla told her, with a confident smile.

  Priscilla didn’t smile back. Actually, she looked as if she were feeling kind of sick.

  “We’re going now,” Kayla said.

  I followed her out of the office, then looked back. Priscilla collapsed into her chair, planted her elbows on her desk, dropped her face into her palms and shook her head wildly.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Kayla whispered.

  “Hell, yeah,” I murmured.

  The only bump in the road ahead of me was my promise to Marcie that I would tell her everything at dinner tonight. It would have to wait. It suited me better, really. I kind of wanted to forget the whole thing for a while anyway.

  I headed for my office, my spirits high, my steps light, Highway to the Danger Zone playing in my head. Now, instead of slogging through my daily grind, I was off to a fantastic retreat for a whole week.

  What a heck of a way to start off a Monday.

  No way could anything bad happen now.

  No way.

  ***

  Ready for some romance?

  The stakes were never this high in 1888 Marlow, Colorado, than in this heartwarming novella featured in the Harlequin Historical anthology A Hero’s Kiss!

  Jack Delaney owns the wildest saloon in Marlow, Colorado. Rebecca Merriweather runs the ladies’ tea room. They’ve entered into a bargain. Will their wager make them the talk of the town—or lead to love?

  Chapter One of Wild West Wager

  Colorado, 1888

  So many women. Which one to pick?

  Jack Delaney leaned his elbow atop the bat- wing doors of the Lucky Streak Saloon and gazed outside at the skirts swishing down Main Street. Midaftemoon and the women of Marlow were going about their business, doing whatever it was women did all day.

  Jack sighed. Lots of women.

  But he needed only one—didn’t want one, just needed one.

  Glancing back over his shoulder he saw Roy Hanover, his bartender, and a couple of cowboys standing at the bar. Not a lot of customers, especially for a warm afternoon.

  Jack grumbled under his breath and once more turned his attention outside. For a moment, a vision of New York—his home—swam before his eyes. He’d left there and come west several years ago. Jack’s gut twisted into a quick knot at the memory of his decision to leave home—and what he’d left behind.

  After rambling around for several years, he’d had a lucky run at a poker table, and two months ago, he’d bought the Lucky Streak Saloon. Jack thought his luck had changed.

  He’d been wrong about that, too.

  “Something going on?” Roy appeared at Jack’s side and rose on his toes to see over the door. Jack had no such trouble. At over six feet tall, he towered over most everything and everybody.

  “Looking.” Jack pushed his fingers through his black hair, forcing aside the old memories. “Looking for a woman.”

  Roy’s thick mustache bobbed and Jack guessed a grin lurked beneath it. “The girls down at Miss Dora’s parlor house can take care of you.”

  Jack rubbed his chin. He needed a woman, all right. But not just any woman. One with particular... skills.

  “I was thinking more along the lines of Rebecca Merriweather,” he said.

  “Miss Merriweather?” Roy’s eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you know who Miss Merriweather is?”

  At the mention of her name, Jack’s gut tightened again, but for a different reason. He knew exactly who she was. He’d seen her around town. How could he miss her? Dark hair, brown eyes, always dressed in the fashionable gowns of a fine Eastern lady rather than the simple gingham and calico most of the local women wore.

  Roy shook his head. ‘‘Miss Merriweather is a respectable woman. Hell, they don’t come more respectable than her.”

  That was true. The first time Jack had spotted her on the street he’d seen her stiff back, her level chin, her moderate steps. She’d practiced for hours walking with a book balanced on her head, surely, as his sisters had done.

  Rebecca Merriweather was a tight little package, all right—that no one had opened.

  Jack knew her type. He’d learned the hard way.

  “Now, I know you’re still kinda new in town, and all,” Roy said, “and you already had that run-in with Mrs. Frazier. But Miss Merriweather isn’t the kind of woman—”

  “Yes, she is.” Jack fetched his black Stetson from the peg beside the door. “Miss Merriweather is just the woman I need.”

  “You’re not going over to her place, are you?” Roy asked, horror and panic causing his voice to rise.

  Jack settled his hat on his head. “That woman has got something I need. And I intend to have it.”

  He walked outside, leaving his stunned bartender, his two lone customers, the saloon and all its problems behind.

  Marlow’s main street was a long line of wooden buildings fronted by boardwalks, hitching rails and water troughs. Horses, carriages and wagons filled the dirt street.

  The town had pushed outward with the promise of the railroad expected next spring. East Street and West Street bracketed the town, adding more shops, stores and houses to Marlow’s already burgeoning economy. Business was increasing in anticipation of the arrival of the railroad. That’s why Jack had chosen to invest his money here.

  It had seemed like a good idea at the time, anyway.

  Jack greeted the men he passed on the boardwalk. He smiled and tipped his hat to the women who crossed his path, but as usual, got little more than a cold stare in return.

  Thanks to that ol’ battle-ax Mrs. Frazier.

  Shortly after he’d arrived in town, the woman had barged into his saloon making demands on how he should run his business. He’d sent her packing, but made himself an enemy. Aside from being the wife of the richest rancher in the area, she also headed up Marlow’s social and church functions.

  Along with Miss Prim and Proper herself, Rebecca Merriweather.

  Jack stopped on the boardwalk and gazed at the unmistakable storefront owned by Rebecca and her aunt. He saw the Marlow Tearoom and Gift Emporium every day from the door of his saloon, just across the street and down the block. Nobody could miss the place.

  P
ink. She’d painted it pink.

  Jack had heard the story many times about Rebecca and the “discussion” she’d had in the middle of the boardwalk with Seth Grissom, the local carpenter—and probably the scariest-looking man Jack had ever laid eyes on—over the choice of color. Rebecca had gotten her way, a fact that hadn’t surprised Jack in the least, and Griss was still getting grief over it.

  Jack pulled his hat a little lower on his forehead. He didn’t think for a minute that Miss Merriweather would eagerly go along with what he wanted. He knew it would take some work on his part to gain her cooperation. And once she agreed, he’d have to proceed cautiously.

  A man always had to be careful around a woman like Rebecca Merriweather.

  ~

  “What else, ladies?”

  Rebecca Merriweather gazed across the table at the two women, ready to add another item to her long list should Doris Tidwell or Nelly Walker come up with anything. Neither, she feared, had noticed the gaping hole in their list of preparations for this Sunday’s church social.

  Mrs. Tidwell and Mrs. Walker exchanged a troubled look. Rebecca had seen the same expression on the students’ faces in Miss Whitney’s classroom when she helped at the school.

  While the women pondered the social’s missing ingredient, Rebecca let her own mind rush on to other matters requiring her attention this afternoon.

  The first, of course, was the room in which she and the ladies now sat. Rebecca looked around with pride at what she’d accomplished with the— if at first reluctant—blessing of her aunt Virginia Kent.

  When Rebecca had moved here from Maryland to join her aunt six months ago, she’d been stunned by the little restaurant Aunt Virginia had owned. Dismal and unappealing, it drew only a few guests despite her aunt’s excellent cooking.

  Years spent working at her father’s side in his Baltimore department store had sent dozens of ideas exploding in Rebecca’s mind. A walk through town and a chat with the mayor confirmed that her initial thoughts were correct.

  At first, Aunt Virginia was less than excited about Rebecca’s idea to close the restaurant and start over with a new business. She’d opened the little eatery with her husband, now dead, and was getting by well enough.