Purses and Poison Page 5

  He stood next to a desk big enough to land a squadron of F-22s on, and was as impeccable as his surroundings. Already over the hump and into his fifties, I guessed. Tall, trim, a touch of gray at his temples, an expensive suit and conservative necktie.

  He didn’t look surprised to see me—or glad, either.

  “Good morning, Miss Randolph,” he said, and gestured to a chair. “Please, have a seat. Can I offer you coffee? Tea, perhaps?”

  “No, thank you,” I said, and sat down, placing my Fendi bag and Louis Vuitton organizer on the edge of his desk where he would be sure to see them and know that I deserved to be here.

  He sat and an awkward moment passed until he finally said, “So, how is Ms. Croft?”

  “Evelyn?” I was surprised he remembered her. The new account we opened with a mere eighty grand was hardly cause for excitement at the Golden State B & T.

  “Fully recovered,” I reported. Physically, that was true. I didn’t think Evelyn would want me telling the bank VP that she was too afraid to walk out her own front door these days.

  “I’m so glad to hear that.” Mr. Olsen looked relieved. “Really, I’m so glad. Please give her my warmest regards.”

  Another uncomfortable moment passed as he glanced from me to his office doorway.

  “Should we wait for Mr. Cameron?” Mr. Olsen asked.

  I made a show of looking at my watch, then shook my head.

  “He must have been delayed. There’s a situation with advertisers,” I said, which could have been true. I’d heard him on the phone handling all sorts of problems every time we’d been out together.

  “For Wallace Incorporated?” Olsen asked.

  Wallace Inc. was the new store Ty was opening, his own venture separate from Holt’s. The deal had been in the works for months. Golden State Bank & Trust was handling the financing, or something. Ty had explained it but I’d drifted off.

  Olsen frowned. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  Oh God, now he thought there was a problem with Ty opening the store on time.

  “Nothing Ty can’t handle,” I said, and waved my hand to demonstrate that it was no big deal.

  Olsen’s frown deepened. “So there is a problem.”

  “No. There’s no problem,” I insisted, and forced a smile. “It’s a situation. That’s all. Just a simple, routine, everyday situation.”

  He frowned for another moment, then scratched a note on a slip of paper, and turned to me again. “So, Miss Randolph, what can I do for you this morning?”

  “I’d like some information,” I said.

  Mr. Olsen’s smile returned, as if he could see this would be easy and he could hand me off to an assistant and get on to dealing with people more important than me.

  I took a piece of paper from my Louis Vuitton organizer and handed it to him. On it, Evelyn had written everything she knew about her neighbor Cecil Hartley, whom she believed had been murdered by his new girlfriend.

  “I’d like you to give me information on this man,” I said.

  Mr. Olsen slipped on his reading glasses and stared down at the paper for a moment.

  “I don’t understand,” he said, looking at me over the top of his glasses.

  “It’s all right there,” I said. To Evelyn’s information, I’d added a list of info I needed. “His credit cards, when he last used them, where they were used. That sort of thing.”

  Mr. Olsen frowned a completely new kind of frown.

  “This is highly irregular,” he told me.

  I knew that. I also knew that Cecil Hartley was probably alive and well. Evelyn had told me he’d bought a new motor home a few months ago, so I figured he and the new girlfriend were on some cross-country adventure—or whatever it was old people did in those things—and would return home sooner or later.

  But Evelyn had been adamant—too many crime dramas on the Lifetime Channel, I suspect—and convinced beyond all doubt that Barb, the new girlfriend, had somehow done Cecil in. So I figured if I could show her that he was using his credit cards somewhere, it would prove he was alive and kicking. I also figured that the easiest way to get that information was from Bradley Olsen.

  Only Bradley Olsen didn’t seem all that anxious to help out.

  He stared at me, completely stunned, as if I’d just asked him to take off his clothes—yuck—and dance on the desk.

  “This is also illegal,” he said, his voice getting a little higher. “I can’t simply check into someone’s credit history on a whim. There are policies and procedures, federal laws and government regulations. You do know that, don’t you?”

  “Of course I know that,” I said—really I didn’t, but no need to tell him that.

  At this point, I could have reminded him of the incident last fall when he and the Golden State Bank & Trust had come way close to a huge scandal, but had been saved from public humiliation by yours truly—okay, it was really Ty, but he wouldn’t have done it if it hadn’t been for me. Anyway, I could have said that. I didn’t want to, though. Nobody likes being reminded of their screwups.

  I know this from personal experience.

  But I didn’t see any reason to actually tell him the truth, either. That complicating things sometimes.

  So I said, “It’s for Evelyn. She’s thinking of investing with this guy and I think he’s up to no good. Preying on her because she’s lonely.”

  Olsen’s expression morphed back into concerned-banker mode. Or so I thought until he said, “Ms. Croft is lonely? Why, I assumed she had a husband, children. Surely a woman like her would have a very full life.”

  Okay, that was weird. But he seemed to be on my side now, so I went with it.

  “I’m afraid this Cecil Hartley is some sort of gigolo,” I said. “I don’t want to see her get hurt.”

  “Neither do I. So, yes, of course. Of course, I’ll check into it. I can’t have a lovely lady like Ms. Croft—” He stopped suddenly and said, “That is, I owe it to her as a Golden State Bank and Trust customer to thoroughly investigate any business opportunity.”

  I figured I should get out of there while things were still going my way, but I couldn’t resist adding, “I’ll be sure to let Ty know how helpful you’ve been.”

  Of course, there was no way I’d ever mention this to Ty.

  Olsen pushed to his feet and stood tall. “I’ll get on it immediately,” he declared.

  Bradley Olsen, man on a mission.

  It seemed a shame to ruin a perfectly wonderful day by going to work, but that’s what my life was these days.

  I swung into a parking space at my apartment complex and sat there for a moment contemplating things. I had just enough time to get inside, change clothes, then call my best friend, Marcie, at work before I headed to Holt’s. I needed to talk to her about this whole Ty-going-to-Europe thing. And, of course, tell her about the school supplies I’d just bought.

  After leaving Bradley Olsen’s office this morning I’d stopped by the mall to check on that Judith Leiber evening bag I was dying to have. It was still in the case, still gorgeous. I stayed until the security guard started to stare. But I could hardly tear myself away. I felt sort of like a soldier saying good-bye to a lover in one of those old war movies.

  I’m pretty sure it called my name when I left.

  So, to ease my heartache, I’d taken a quick turn through the mall just to see what was new in the stores. It’s important to stay on top of all the latest fashion trends. And wouldn’t you know it, Nordstrom had awesome new Kate Spade bags that had just arrived.

  That left me in a bit of a dilemma, since I’d promised myself that I wouldn’t spend money on anything except essentials and things I needed for school. Then it occurred to me that the purse would look great with the new pair of jeans I’d bought last week for school, so technically, that made the bag a school expense. So what could I do but buy it? Along with a matching wallet, of course.

  You know, if it weren’t for the homework, this school thing wouldn’t be so ba
d.

  I got out of my car and popped my trunk to get out my packages, and noticed a car door opening at a nearby space. Detective Shuman got out.

  I froze. What was Shuman doing here? At my apartment? In the middle of the afternoon?

  Then I gulped. Oh my God. Oh my God. Was he here to arrest me?

  My gaze darted from car to car. Was Detective Madison here, too? He wouldn’t want to miss this.

  Should I jump behind the wheel? Tear out of the parking lot? I envisioned videotape shot from a news chopper above the L.A. freeways as I led a caravan of police cars on a high-speed chase to the Mexican border. But how would I live down there? What would become of me?

  I’m definitely taking Spanish next semester.

  Detective Shuman walked over and I saw that he was alone.

  “I don’t see Madison, so I guess I’m not under arrest,” I said.

  “Not today,” he said.

  Shuman looked kind of good, with the afternoon sunlight shining on his brown hair. It gave him golden highlights that I hadn’t noticed before. Since that crab-ass Madison wasn’t with him, I figured this visit wasn’t about police business. Probably something to do with his girlfriend.

  I pulled my shopping bags out of the trunk.

  “I won a latte machine at the Holt’s prize raffle,” I said, nodding to the box Bella had put in my trunk. “Bring it upstairs and we’ll try it out.”

  “I don’t think that’s a latte machine,” Shuman said, after a quick peek into the trunk. “I need to talk to you about Claudia Gray’s murder.”

  “You found the murderer already?” I asked, hoping that somehow a miracle had happened and this nightmare was over.

  Shuman shook his head. “No. I want to find out why you lied about what you were doing in the stockroom that day.”

  Chapter 6

  “Husqvarna Viking,” I said, gesturing to the box that Shuman had just placed on the coffee table in front of my sofa. “It’s that French company that makes latte machines.”

  Shuman spun the box around and pointed to the words and picture on the other side.

  “It’s a sewing machine,” he said.

  “What?”

  I dropped my shopping bags on the sofa. A sewing machine? I’d won a sewing machine at the Holt’s raffle? What was I supposed to do—what would anybody do—with a sewing machine?

  Leave it to Holt’s to give such a lame prize.

  “Look, Haley,” Shuman said, “I know you and Detective Madison don’t get along. But lying to the police—especially in a homicide investigation—isn’t going to help matters.”

  Maybe inviting a homicide detective into my home wasn’t such a good idea.

  “If Madison would stop fixating on me, he probably could have solved this case already,” I said, and gestured to the kitchen. “Want something to drink?”

  “What were you really doing in the stockroom?”

  “I sure could go for a Snickers bar right about now,” I told him, and headed for the kitchen cabinet where I kept my stash.

  Shuman followed. “We’re going to find out what really happened that day,” he told me.

  It came across as a warning, rather than a threat, but my heart jumped, just the same.

  Oh my God. What if they found my DNA in that blouse I wore, or on the sunglasses? What if they found one of my hairs in the wig?

  I was pretty sure my DNA hadn’t been registered anywhere. But what if the detectives sneaked around Holt’s and found a stray hair someplace, like they do on those TV shows, and compared it to the ones inside the wig? I couldn’t let that happen. I’d have to be careful not to let any of it get loose.

  But which is worse? Going to prison or wearing a hair net?

  “Oh, look. Oreos.” I ripped open the package and shoved one in my mouth—whole, not even twisting off the top, which showed how stressed I was.

  “So, who’s this missing server, anyway?” I managed to ask, hoping to distract him.

  Shuman didn’t answer me, just got a weird look on his face.

  So weird that I put down the Oreos.

  “The lab found out how Claudia was poisoned,” he said. “It was the fruit bouquet from Edible Elegance.”

  I gasped. Oh my God. My mom’s fruit bouquets?

  “No—no, that doesn’t make sense,” I told him, relieved that I’d come up with a plausible objection. “If the fruit bouquets were poisoned, why didn’t anybody else die—or at least get sick?”

  “Every bouquet prepared for the VIPs at the head table had a name tag on it,” Shuman said.

  I remembered seeing the chocolate name tags, and thinking how cool they were.

  “Somebody intended to murder Claudia,” Shuman said.

  My stomach twisted into a knot. I knew what he was going to say next.

  “Edible Elegance is your mom’s company. Right?”

  “Well, yeah, but…”

  “It looks like your mom found out Ty was going to break up with you because he wanted to resume his relationship with Claudia. So your mom poisoned Claudia’s fruit bouquet. She murdered her.”

  I shook my head frantically. “No. That’s not possible.”

  “So Ty wasn’t planning to get back together with Claudia?” Shuman asked.

  “Well…”

  “Things are okay between you two?”

  “Well…”

  I should have been able to tell Shuman that things were perfect between Ty and me, but I couldn’t. I didn’t know how things were between the two of us—which was all Ty’s fault. And, as a result, my mom was a murder suspect.

  “Look, no matter what’s going on with Ty and me, it has nothing to do with my mom. She absolutely would not murder anyone,” I insisted.

  Shuman shrugged. “It’s her company. She has unrestricted access to the ingredients, the finished product, everything.”

  “She doesn’t even know where they’re made,” I exclaimed.

  A woman who lists “walking comfortably in five-inch stilettos” under “major accomplishments” on her résumé isn’t exactly a hands-on business owner. But how could I convince Shuman of that?

  “Does Detective Madison know about this?” I asked.

  Shuman shook his head. “I just found out.”

  And he’d come here first, to tell me, to warn me. I appreciated that, but it didn’t alleviate my worry.

  “When Madison finds out, he’ll go nuts. He’ll stop investigating,” I said. “Is there any way you can hold off on telling him?”

  “This is a homicide investigation,” Shuman said, looking and sounding just like a detective. “A high-profile murder has been committed. A lot of important people in L.A. are pressuring the department. The media has us under a microscope. Didn’t you see the prayer vigil last night for the missing server?”

  A prayer vigil? Oh my God.

  “I don’t want Madison anywhere near my mom,” I said.

  “Then if you know anything else about what happened in the stockroom the day Claudia was murdered, now’s the time to tell me.”

  Shuman gave me a hard-ass cop stare that he must have gotten an A-plus on in the academy. It gave me a chill. It made me want to confess to something.

  But would telling Shuman about substituting for the sick server help? Or would it make things worse? Would the facts end up being twisted to fit their theory, and make things harder for my mom?

  Confessing that I’d donned a disguise for the sole purpose of hiding from Claudia might lead the detectives to believe Mom and I had been in on the murder together. And how would that help anything?

  “If I knew anything that would help, I’d tell you,” I said to Shuman, which was true—sort of.

  I don’t think Shuman bought it but he gave up, which was just as good. I followed him to the door.

  “Please don’t tell Detective Madison that my mom owns Edible Elegance,” I said, sounding desperate.

  He paused in the doorway. “I can’t keep this kind of information fro
m him.”

  We just looked at each other for a few seconds; then Shuman left.

  I changed into khaki pants and a sweater while I was on the phone with Juanita, my mom’s housekeeper that I’d known for most of my life. Mom was distraught, Juanita reported—which could have been because of anything from Claudia’s death to Vera Wang’s new spring line—and resting. Okay by me, because I didn’t really want to talk to her, anyway. Juanita gave me the info I needed and I took off.

  Marilyn—whose last name was Carmichael, I’d learned from Juanita—owned Pacific Coast Catering Company in Sherman Oaks. If I hurried I could get there, talk to Marilyn, and still get to Holt’s on time, or close to it, anyway.

  I cruised down the 5 freeway, cutting off slower cars, as necessary, thinking this would probably be my only chance to talk to Marilyn about what had happened at the Holt’s luncheon. Once the police announced that Claudia had been poisoned, Pacific Coast Catering would be besieged by reporters. And if Shuman couldn’t—or wouldn’t—keep a lid on the news that Edible Elegance was the true culprit, Marilyn certainly wouldn’t speak with me then.

  The catering company was located in a strip mall off Sepulveda Boulevard. I whipped into a parking space and went inside.

  The showroom boasted the latest trend in decorating, lots of deep green, brown, and bronze, a place where Marilyn’s upscale clientele would feel right at home. Several wrought-iron tables were placed around the room where customers could sit and flip through books of menus and photos of food. The scent of cookies wafted in from the back room where the food was prepared.

  Marilyn came out through the curtained doorway looking a bit leery about who she might find in her store; undoubtedly, the detectives had already been here, perhaps even the press.

  I’m guessing Marilyn was pushing sixty. Short, wide. Sensible suit, sensible shoes. White hair that she must have styled by breathing in helium that caused it to inflate like a balloon, then shellacked it into place with enough spray to withstand a Category 5 hurricane.

  I introduced myself and reminded her of who my mom was, something I don’t usually do—unless it benefits me, of course.