Shop Til You Drop Dead (A Hollis Brannigan Mystery) Read online

  Andy hated everything—but himself.

  “They should have hired you in investigations,” Andy said, smoothing his hair back. He shook the portfolio at me. “This is the sort of thing someone like you should be sent out on.”

  Andy’s comment was insulting on many levels—not the least of which was the common knowledge that I wasn’t from around here—but he was so self-centered I was sure it didn’t occur to him. Besides, at the moment I didn’t care. I saw an opportunity and jumped on it.

  “I’ll take it for you,” I said.

  Andy froze, his fingers in mid-swoop through his hair, and looked down at me as if I were a wad of gum he’d just discovered on the sole of his Minolo loafers.

  “You?” he asked. “Investigate a case?”

  “Sure,” I told him and shrugged to indicate it was no big deal. “I go out there, talk to the owner, calm her down, makes notes on everything she says, and that’s it. I come back here, give you the info, and you turn it over to the techs to follow up.”

  Andy didn’t say anything.

  “And in the meantime, you can do whatever you want,” I said.

  Now I had his attention. He pressed his lips together and narrowed his eyes thinking, I was sure, of all the places he could hang out and not do any actual work.

  Andy was definitely management material.

  He looked me up and down then pursed his lips distastefully. “You’ll have to go to wardrobe.”

  Fisher Joyce had a wardrobe department. The company was even fussier than Andy when it came to appearances. All the employees were required to project the right image when dealing face-to-face with clients, which meant we sometimes got to wear awesome clothes and drive really hot cars from the motor pool.

  “No problem,” I said.

  “And you’ll have to hurry,” he said, glancing at my shopping bag. “You can’t keep the client waiting.”

  “I’ll be on my way in fifteen minutes,” I said.

  “That should be fine.” Andy huffed irritably and glared once more at the parking valets. “If somebody could actually get a car up here!”

  “Great,” I said, and reached for the portfolio.

  Andy held it back. “Don’t screw this up.”

  “It’s a missing dog,” I said. “What’s to screw up?”

  Andy studied me for another few seconds then handed over the portfolio.

  “I’ll remember this,” he said.

  I think—hope—he meant that as a compliment.

  I dashed into the shipping department near the valet booth, and into the prep room where our clients’ purchases were custom packaged before being hand delivered in one of the company’s vans. Another plus for our clients was that the prestige of a personal shopping service guaranteed their packages were not tossed in with those of the common folk, nor handled by the riffraff of commercial delivery services.

  Apparently, wealthy, privileged people can’t be told often enough just how special they are.

  I dumped Zella’s hideous khaki pants on a work table and folded them between thin sheets of pale blue tissue paper, then placed them inside a gray gift box, both bearing the Fisher Joyce company logo. I printed the purchase receipt that Macy’s had emailed to me along with the delivery label from the computer at the work-station in the corner. I sealed Zella’s copy of the receipt inside a gray envelope along with my business card and a pre-printed thank you note, both with the Fisher Joyce logo on them, then tied the package with a wide navy blue ribbon and handed it off to the guy in the shipping department.

  All for a pair of elastic-waist khaki pants.

  That’s Hollywood.

  I did the same for Gloria’s shoes, then took the elevator up to the sixth floor and went through the double doors into the Fisher Joyce reception area. It was sleek, contemporary, with stainless steel, gray marble, and white furniture.

  I gave the two receptionists a little wave as I passed by. They were women in their forties, the age where they still looked great but were old enough to not take any crap from someone who showed up without an appointment.

  Sometimes, if the lobby was empty and the phones were quiet, they’d chat with me which I appreciated since I was still kind of new here. But I didn’t have time for small talk today. Andy had agreed to let me take a case, my shot at making inroads into the investigations department, and I didn’t have a minute to spare.

  Not that I’d need much time, once I got to the client’s house. All I had to do was make a few sympathetic noises and jot down the info about the missing dog.

  What could be easier?

  Chapter 2

  The wardrobe department always looked as if a clothing bomb had gone off in there. What must have been hundreds of garments hung from racks that took up most of the floor space. There were walls of shoes, handbags, and hats, plus drawers filled with accessories and jewelry. Closets held the private clothing collections that belonged to the company’s upper management—I guess you never knew when you might have to throw on an Armani tux or a Versace gown and swing by a gala event.

  Wardrobe employees dressed in extreme outfits and sported edgy hair styles. In Hollywood this was called fashion-forward. In KCK it would have been called Halloween.

  The place was always crazy busy with the half-dozen employees moving garments around, styling personnel heading out on company business, talking with designers on their phones, interviewing clients, or running up something on a sewing machine. One of them was the friend of my neighbor who’d told me about the job here. She spotted me as soon as I walked through the door.

  “Hollis, what’s up?” Moss called.

  Yes, everyone called her Moss but I doubted it was her real name—although making up a new name seemed to be the norm for wardrobe people since two of the other girls who worked there were called Triplet and Flute.

  Moss was super cool and, like all the other wardrobe people I’d met in L.A., she had insane fashion sense. Today her jet-black hair was spiked straight up and she had on ankle boots, leggings, shorts, and a long sleeve shirt under a tank top, all in varying shades of pink.

  She looked like a fairy without wings.

  “I’m meeting with a client,” I said.

  “Anybody cool?” she asked.

  I rolled my eyes. “Like that would happen.”

  Moss nodded her understanding of my lowly off-listers position. “Where’s the meet?” she asked.

  “At her home in Hancock Park,” I said.

  Moss didn’t even blink.

  “Some rich old lady,” she said, and disappeared into the clothing racks.

  Inside of four minutes she reappeared and presented me with a black, totally accessorized, Michael Kors business suit. I slipped into one of the dressing rooms and changed.

  “You nailed it, as usual,” I said, as I came out and zipped my own clothes into a garment bag.

  Moss took the bag and had me do a quick spin.

  “Epic,” she declared.

  I grabbed my things and headed to the parking garage. The car the valet brought around for me was another BMW 5-Series. I punched the client’s address into the GPS, and headed west on Wilshire Boulevard.

  Was this awesome, or what? Here I was dressed in a designer suit, complete with expensive accessories, driving a luxury automobile along one of the most well known streets in one of the world’s most fabulous cities.

  I love L.A.

  Of course, even a luxury automobile could get caught in traffic, especially on one of the most well-known streets in one of the world’s most fabulous cities. As so often happens in L.A., traffic had come to a complete stop for no obvious reason. I took the opportunity to skim the portfolio the tech in the investigations department had compiled for Andy. It was the hard copy; some clients, mostly older ones, preferred seeing us writing on paper instead of pecking on our phones or tablets.

  Fisher Joyce wouldn’t dream of having an employee visit a client without knowing just who they were dealing with. The in
fo the techs compiled came from public records—and a few shadier sources I couldn’t wait to learn about when I got to work there—unless the client had previous business with the company. From the thin file Andy had given me, it appeared this client was a first-timer.

  I saw that this case file had been compiled by Meredith Durant. I’d met her in the breakroom shortly after I’d started at Fisher Joyce and we hit it off right away. She was a lot like me—early twenties, single, and struggling with money, dating, and the always present questions about the future.

  Meredith was fashion-challenged so I’d given her advice on what to wear on occasion. I’d told her I wanted to work in the investigations department so she gave me a heads-up on the latest rumors, poor performance reviews, and possible job openings.

  According to the file Meredith had prepared, the woman with the missing dog was one Barbara Walker-Pierce, the old-school, old-money widow of an investment banker, who spent her time and considerable wealth on philanthropic endeavors—and, no doubt, lavishing unseemly amounts of money on her now-missing dog.

  Traffic cleared and I continued down Wilshire, then turned onto June Street in Hancock Park. This section of L.A. had been developed in the 1920s by an oil-drilling family who sold lots around the grounds of a private golf club on which huge, architecturally distinctive homes had been built—the term architecturally distinctive homes being code for mansions.

  I’d been to this section of town once before on a movie shoot when Brittany and I had worked as extras. The production company had rented a house that the owners had inherited but couldn’t afford to maintain, and they had used the property’s front lawn as the setting of a park.

  I cruised down June Street past magnificent homes, all surrounded by mature, well tended landscaping, until my GPS announced that I’d arrived at my destination. I pulled into the driveway and sat there for a couple of minutes reading the rest of Barbara Walker-Pierce’s file.

  It was mostly info on her general background—her maiden name, birth date, kids. Her known associates read like a who’s-who list of other wealthy philanthropic families in Los Angeles.

  The only thing that jumped out at me was that this property wasn’t Mrs. Walker-Pierce’s home. The owner of record was one Edith Bagley. Meredith hadn’t taken the next step of identifying the Bagley woman or her connection to our new client. I guess there’s only so much background needed for a missing dog.

  The house was a white stucco Spanish style, easily worth the $10.5 million estimated in the file. A Mercedes S Class sedan that went for over a hundred grand—I know cars, thanks to my uncles, their car lot, and their love of automobiles in general—sat next to me in the driveway. Everything about the house and the neighborhood indicated the residents enjoyed great wealth, and probably had for generations.

  I walked up the brick path to the low-rise tile steps. The double front doors were intricately carved dark wood; one of them had a mail slot. I rang the bell.

  After a minute or so I heard the clacking of heels on tile inside. The door opened. I expected to be greeted by a servant in a uniform, and was surprised to see Barbara Walker-Pierce instead.

  She looked pretty much like the photo I’d seen in her file—medium height and build, mid-fifties, short graying hair, with a look of polished sophistication befitting a woman of her standing.

  “Hello, Mrs. Walker-Pierce,” I said. “I’m Hollis Brannigan from Fisher Joyce.”

  I held out my business card but she didn’t take it. She just stood there holding on to the door, looking me up and down trying to determine, I suppose, my worthiness to help find her missing dog. Maybe she’d expected me to roll up in an armored vehicle accompanied by a team of professional dog-trackers ready to swarm the neighborhood. I didn’t know. I stood there, waiting.

  Finally, she took my business card and stared at it. Since all it stated was my name, the company’s name and contact info, I didn’t know exactly what she expected to glean from the long in depth study she was giving it. I didn’t say anything, just kept standing there and waiting.

  “You’re an investigator, Ms. Brannigan?” she asked, though her tone suggested she doubted it.

  “Yes, I am,” I said and gave her my most confident smile.

  “Experienced?” she asked. “I requested someone with experience.”

  I wasn’t sure exactly how much experience Mrs. Walker-Pierce thought was necessary to locate a missing dog, but apparently she’d found my outward appearance lacking, despite the totally hot, fully accessorized Michael Kors suit I was wearing.

  Not good.

  My future flashed in my head—getting turned away, explaining to Andy that I’d failed, blowing my very first investigation, shopping for elastic-waist khaki pants for Zella Mason forever.

  I absolutely was not—was not—leaving this house without completing this assignment.

  “Actually, I was hand-picked for this assignment because of my extensive experience in this field,” I said.

  Sure, my experience had been in tracking down deadbeats who skipped out on their payments and locating cars owned by customers who flat refused to pay, but at the very heart of the matter it was the same as locating a missing dog.

  That’s how I saw it, anyway.

  Mrs. Walker-Pierce toyed with my business card, turning it over and over, reading and re-reading the info printed on it. A couple more minutes dragged by. I waited.

  “I suppose Fisher Joyce wouldn’t have sent you if you weren’t qualified,” she finally said.

  She looked at me again. I didn’t know what I could say or do to convince her I was a worthy investigator—except maybe whip out a deerstalker hat and a magnifying glass. My thoughts raced, trying to come up with something.

  Mrs. Walker-Pierce drew in a breath, as if to indicate that while she wasn’t thrilled with me, I’d do.

  “Please, come in,” she said.

  There’s something about a house when no one lives there. It’s unnaturally quiet. I got that feeling as soon as I stepped into the entryway.

  Mrs. Walker-Pierce seemed to read my thoughts.

  “The house belongs—belonged—to my aunt,” she explained.

  “Edith Bagley,” I said, remembering the name mentioned in the file.

  She nodded, impressed. “She passed away two weeks ago. I’m her nearest relative. She left everything to me. I’m in the process of settling her estate.”

  An estate, I supposed, that somehow included the dog that was now missing.

  “I know this is a difficult time for you,” I said.

  Mrs. Walker-Pierce gave me a thin smile. “Aunt Edith lived a rich, full life. She gave tirelessly of herself to many worthwhile causes. A new library is under construction and will be named in her honor.”

  I returned her thin smile and nodded my understanding, as if any number of my own relatives were about to have a library named in their honor.

  “Let’s get on with this, shall we?” she asked. “This way, please.”

  I followed her across the tiled entryway and up the grand circular staircase. Carved, dark wood was everywhere, along with linen wall coverings, chandeliers, crystal sconces, paintings and sculptures, and big, heavy pieces of furniture. Everything looked as if it had been purchased decades ago which, I suppose, made them antiques and even more valuable.

  The upstairs hallway was wide. Oriental carpets covered the dark wood floors. The chandeliers were turned off. All the doors we passed were closed. Beveled glass doors at the end of the hallway opened onto a balcony, letting in little light.

  It was deadly silent up here and kind of creepy. It hit me then that maybe something weird was going on. Sure, the tech in the investigations unit had done a background search on this Barbara Walker-Pierce, but I doubted she’d dug deep enough to learn whether or not Edith Bagley had a mentally deranged son locked up in one of these rooms.

  I couldn’t help thinking that in this big mansion situated on this huge lot, nobody would hear me scream. Nobody
knew I was here—except for Andy, and who knew when, or if, he’d realize I was missing.

  Mrs. Walker-Pierce stopped at the last door on the left. She put her hand on the knob that was set in a big brass plate with a keyhole, paused for a few seconds, then opened it and stepped inside.

  I hesitated.

  Then Zella Mason flashed in my head, along with the prospect of an unceasing chain of elastic-waist, khaki pants.

  I followed Mrs. Walker-Pierce into the room.

  It was the home’s master bedroom. The furnishings—chests, a dresser, night-stands, a writing desk, book shelves, and a king-sized bed—were decades old, heavy pieces made of dark wood. A large print, floral wallpaper in deep green and maroon blended with the Oriental carpet, drapes, and coverlet. Windows opened onto the rear lawn letting in muted sunlight.

  “The house was built in the twenties,” Mrs. Walker-Pierce said, gesturing around the room. “Aunt Edith’s husband purchased it shortly before they were married. She did no remodeling whatsoever. She preferred to maintain the integrity of the original design.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that.

  “She enjoyed the original furnishings she’d purchased with her husband, years ago,” Mrs. Walker-Pierce said.

  I didn’t know what to say to that either, and I was really wondering where this conversation was going and what, exactly, any of it had to do with a missing dog.

  “Aunt Edith died here, in this room,” she said.

  A slightly creepy chill swept up my back.

  Mrs. Walker-Pierce walked to the bed where a Louis Vuitton suitcase lay atop the heavy maroon coverlet.

  I had no idea what was about to happen.

  Did she maybe think the missing dog was inside the suitcase and she wanted me to open it?

  “Aunt Edith was in good health, considering,” Mrs. Walker-Pierce said. “Her death came quite suddenly, quite … unexpectedly.”

  I really hoped her Aunt Edith wasn’t inside the suitcase.

  “Aunt Edith had no children. We were close, very close. I adored her as a child, and when I grew up, we worked together on charitable endeavors and things of that nature,” Mrs. Walker-Pierce said.