Handbags and Homicide Read online

  So here I was standing at the time clock again, more minutes of my life ticking away. Rita held the group captive, blabbing on about something; then everybody moved to the bulletin board that she pointed to and I meandered along with them.

  A notice hung there advising all employees of a mandatory meeting in the training room. Several meetings were necessary, so that the sales floor could be covered. A schedule of who was to attend at what time was also posted.

  Maybe I could stay for all the meetings? If I sat near the back, maybe no one would notice. Or, better still, I could hang out in the break room and claim I was at the meeting.

  Life is full of so many great options, sometimes.

  I was contemplating which way to go when Sandy came up beside me.

  “I’m in the next meeting too,” she said.

  My fate was sealed, so I walked along with the crowd to the training room in the complex of offices in the back of the store.

  “So, how was your date last night?” I asked. “Did he take you to Olive Garden?”

  “No, he didn’t have a coupon,” she said. “He handed me a coupon book and said we could eat any place I wanted, as long as there was a coupon.”

  “Please tell me you dumped him on the spot.”

  “He invited me out again tonight.”

  “Please tell me you’re not going.”

  Sandy shrugged. “I kinda like him.”

  The training room had rows of schoolroom desks, a chalkboard, flip chart, and projector, all the equipment necessary to lull the audience into a deep sleep. I got a seat behind this really big guy from Menswear so I could hide from the speaker when I dozed off.

  Aside from peons like me, several of the area and department managers were there. Glenna Webb, of course, along with Craig Matthews. Didn’t that guy have a home? I swear, regardless of what hours I worked, or which shift, he was here. Evelyn Croft was cowering in the corner.

  Everyone came fully alert when Ty Cameron walked into the room. He looked good today, as usual, wearing a Gucci pin-striped suit. From the briefcase he carried, I figured he was running the meeting.

  It surprised me a bit that he was still in the store. I figured, once the initial crisis of Richard’s murder had passed, he would have gone back to doing whatever it was that chain store owners do all day.

  There wasn’t another man in the store as handsome as Ty, so I decided to enjoy the view while I could; most of the girls around me were doing the same.

  Jeanette Avery, the store manager, came into the room wearing a hideous Play-Doh blue suit—ten of them were hanging on the clearance rack in the women’s department at this very moment—and looking grim. Apparently she wasn’t enjoying the sight of the store owner every day as much as the rest of us.

  Ty had a way of captivating the audience—I’m certain it wasn’t just me—as he walked about the room looking everyone in the eye and oozing sincerity as he spoke of the loss of Richard, the distress all the employees had experienced, and the need to heal. He told us how the Holt’s “family” was committed to seeing each of us through this difficult time, then expressed concern for the employees who’d been so traumatized by events that they’d felt compelled to leave the company.

  His speech rolled along pretty well until he got to the part where he apologized to us that we would have to take up the slack until replacements could be hired.

  This had to be bad for us. Even with Christmas only about a month away and seasonal workers eager to make some extra cash for the holidays, I couldn’t see a lot of people anxious to work at Holt’s, where an employee had been murdered in the stockroom.

  “The store values each of you,” Ty said, “and we’re committed to keeping you involved with what goes on here.”

  I doubted that, but didn’t think it was a good time to interrupt.

  “So we’re asking for your suggestions,” he continued, as he handed a stack of flyers to perfect, of-course-you-can-smile Julie to pass out. “We want you to give us your recommendations on what changes should be made here. For the benefit of employees and the customers.”

  Julie handed me the single-page flyer. I was definitely going to have to attach addendums.

  “And we’re going to hold more meetings to discuss your suggestions,” Ty said.

  I caught a glimpse of Jeanette. She didn’t look happy.

  The meeting broke up and I headed for the housewares department, my assigned corner of retail hell tonight. Shannon, the department lead, was waiting when I walked up. She, quite obviously, considered Rita a fashion icon because she dressed just like her, farm animal shirts, and all. But Shannon took it to the next level by wearing a fanny pack.

  “I want you in the greeting cards,” she told me.

  Okay, this might be kind of fun. That area had stationery, gift wrap, those small, inspirational books with cloying verses and pictures of clouds, fields, and sleeping babies nestled inside giant fake flowers. I could pass a couple of hours reading.

  “Some kid ripped open the confetti packages,” Shannon said. She pointed to a huge mound of tiny pastel dots on the floor in front of the greeting card rack. “You’ll have to vacuum them up.”

  I froze. Vacuum? She expected me to run the vacuum?

  “I’m not the janitor,” I told her.

  “He quit. Too afraid to go into the stockroom, after you found Richard there,” she said, and made it sound like it was my fault, somehow. “Just do it, will you, before some kid comes along and eats the stuff, or some old lady slips and falls in it?”

  Shannon stomped away and I stood there stewing. Vacuum the floor? Me? What had my life become?

  I could have ignored Shannon—which I was sorely tempted to do—but she’d probably write me up for insubordination, dereliction of duty, or disobeying a willful command, or something. I didn’t know if Failure to Vacuum was grounds for termination here. They’d probably covered that in orientation.

  I headed for the stockroom telling myself that this was actually doing a good deed. Someone might really slip and fall and, while the financial settlement from Holt’s would surely be sizable, I didn’t want anyone to get hurt.

  The stockroom was silent as I wound through the tall shelves to the janitor’s closet. I realized I hadn’t been in here since the night I found Richard. It kind of creeped me out.

  I stood at the bottom of the wide, concrete staircase, staring up at the second floor and visualizing the scene of Richard’s murder. The stockroom was so orderly, so clean it was hard to imagine something as awful as a murder could happen here. I tried to picture Sophia swinging that U-boat bar at Richard’s head, or Glenna, or even her husband. Not a pretty image to have in my mind.

  Then I wondered what else might have gone on back here. Richard and Glenna banging each other—on a Laura Ashley bed-in-a-bag set? Maybe the one I’d sat on? Ugh—gross.

  I hurried to the janitor’s closet, opened the big door, and found all sorts of commercial equipment and dozens of bottles and cans of cleaners inside. It didn’t smell so great in here, so I grabbed the vacuum and wheeled it out—and ran smack into Craig Matthews.

  I screamed. He yelped and jumped back.

  “Jeez, you scared the crap out of me,” I told him.

  “I’m doing returns,” he said, pointing across the room.

  That area of the stockroom was where defective or unsaleable merchandise was packed in cardboard containers and wrapped in huge sheets of cellophane to await the arrival of what we called the “returns” truck. It came once a week, picked up the merchandise, and took it to the central warehouse. From there, it was either shipped back to the manufacturer for repair or credit, or sent to wherever unwanted merchandise went to die.

  Craig sounded kind of defensive, and I knew I was on edge too. Guess neither one of us was too happy about being in the stockroom again.

  “See you,” I said, and pushed the vacuum out to the greeting card rack.

  This thing was a beast. I hit the button and it roa
red to life, twice as loud as the one I had at home. Two customers looking at the stationery took off.

  Wow, this is kind of cool. Maybe I should volunteer to vacuum the entire store every night. If I got skates, I could count this as my workout. I could wear my iPod and listen to music all night. And, best of all, no customer would come close.

  I pushed the vacuum back and forth as I gazed around the store. Head up, eyes roaming, taking in everything—and not one worry that a customer would ask me to help with anything. Why, I could even—

  Oh my God. Jack Bishop.

  I dropped to my hands and knees and ducked my head.

  Jack Bishop. That totally hot guy who works for one of the consultants on fourteen at Pike Warner. Here. In Holt’s. Oh my God. Did he see me? Vacuuming?

  He couldn’t have. Oh, please, God, don’t let him have seen me—

  The vacuum suddenly died and I looked up to see Jack Bishop standing over me, his hand on the “off” switch.

  I hate my life.

  “Haley?” he asked, his head turned sideways as if he didn’t believe this could possibly be me.

  I couldn’t quite believe it either. Jack was thirty-ish, tall, and rugged, with brown wavy hair and blue eyes that have, I was convinced, seen the dark underbelly of life. He made Eddie Bauer and J. Crew look awesome. And here I was, cowering on the floor in a pile of confetti, in Holt’s.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, glancing around.

  “Well, you know, just picking up some extra cash for Christmas,” I said, as I got to my feet, trying to look casual and composed. “To donate, of course. To charity. I do it every year.”

  “Miss you around the office,” Jack said.

  “Yeah, I guess you know all about it,” I said.

  Jack worked for the private investigators employed by Pike Warner, so I was sure he knew all about my irregularities-investigation-pending situation, because he was involved with it.

  “Know about what?” he asked.

  Oh God. Did he not know?

  “Something wrong, Haley?” he asked, because clearly he could see that there was.

  Jack and I always hit it off at Pike Warner. We worked on the same floor, so we often ran into each other in the break room. We came together naturally, neither of us really fitting into the “corporate” atmosphere.

  “I’m on administrative leave,” I told him. “Mrs. Drexler said there was an audit and some irregularities were found with my work. Aren’t you involved with the investigation?”

  Jack shook his head. “That’s not the kind of thing I do. Auditors and accountants would handle that.”

  “There’s nothing to the charges, of course,” I insisted. “Just some accounting code mix-up, or something. I didn’t do anything fraudulent.”

  “Not your style,” Jack agreed. “Let me know when you get back to work. We’ll go out for a beer to celebrate.”

  “Sounds great,” I called, as he walked away.

  I stood there, watching him disappear down the aisle, wishing I could go with him, wanting my job back, desperate for that Louis Vuitton organizer and the—

  “You’re supposed to vacuum up the confetti,” Shannon barked, suddenly appearing next to me. “Not play in it.”

  I looked down and saw dozens of little pastel dots stuck to my knees and my forearms. They clung to my shirt. Oh God, were they on my face too? While I was talking to Jack Bishop?

  I hate this job. Hate it!

  I hit the “on” switch. The vacuum roared to life and I aimed it straight for Shannon. She jumped out of the way and I pushed it toward her again. She yelled something, but I couldn’t hear it over the noise; then she hurried away.

  I hate this job. I hate my life. I want my old one back.

  And I’m getting them, I swore as I banged the vacuum into the greeting card rack.

  Tomorrow morning, I’m going to Pike Warner and I’m getting some answers.

  CHAPTER 9

  It was a Notorious day. Definitely.

  I’d stood at my closet this morning studying my vast array of handbags, and decided that only my new, much-sought-after, everyone-will-be-jealous red leather Notorious bag would do for my trip to see Kirk Keegan. It teamed nicely with the Chanel suit my mom had bought for my first day of work at the firm. My hair in a little updo finished off my crisp, professional, conservative look. Very Pike Warner, I thought, as I took the elevator up to fifteen.

  Last night I’d planned my arrival here very carefully. I knew Kirk had meetings most mornings, then worked through lunch—no one who expected to make partner at Pike Warner ever took lunch, unless it was with a client—so the best time to catch him was early afternoon. He didn’t know I was coming. I’d tried to reach him again last night but hadn’t heard anything, so I’d decided to just show up at his desk and find out what was going on with my job.

  My knees shook a little as the elevator passed the fourteenth floor, where I—still, technically—worked in Accounts Payable. Then it stopped and the doors opened, revealing the dark, plush carpeting, the rich wood furnishings of fifteen. I moved out with the crowd and my heart nearly melted.

  Prada. Gucci. Ferragamo. Designer fashions, everywhere I looked. This was my place. These were my people. I belonged here. I had to get my job back.

  A large, curving receptionist desk sat in the center of the room; sumptuous chairs and a rain forest of green plants made up the waiting area. Along the back wall were large windows overlooking the city of Los Angeles. Secretaries sat at desks, ringing the reception area, standing guard over the lawyers’ offices behind them.

  I’d only been up to fifteen a couple of times, so I didn’t know if anyone would recognize me. They’d probably know my name, though, thanks to the office-gossip superhighway. And if the receptionist or one of the secretaries recognized me, well, that would be embarrassing, but I was willing to risk it.

  Wanda sat behind the large receptionist desk. She was in her fifties, with gray hair that she’d somehow managed to style so that she looked just like George Washington. Really. She wore a headset and operated a telephone control panel that could launch the space shuttle. She was always hitting buttons on the thing so you can never be sure whether she was talking to you, or the person on the phone.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  I hoisted my Notorious purse higher so she couldn’t help but see it. “Yes, I’m here to see—”

  “Pike Warner.” She hit a button on the console.

  I waited; then she looked at me over the top of her glasses. “Who do you want to see?”

  “Kirk—”

  “Pike Warner.”

  I glanced around the reception area, hoping I might catch Kirk coming out of his office. I didn’t.

  “Miss?” Wanda asked, looking at me as if I’d somehow inconvenienced her. “You’re here to see Mr. Keegan?”

  “Yes, I’d like to—”

  “Pike Warner.”

  I drew in a breath to calm myself and eyed Beth, Kirk’s secretary, seated at her desk. Maybe I should just go over and talk to her. She’d always seemed a little short with me when I called, but that was just the way lawyers’ secretaries did their job.

  “Name?” I heard Wanda say.

  Was she talking to me, or the person on the phone?

  “Miss?” she said, making the word sound a little like “stupid?”

  “Haley Randolph,” I said.

  Wanda’s hands froze over the telephone console. Slowly, her eyes came up and she looked at me as if she knew my innermost, shameful secrets.

  Which, I guess, she did, thanks to the office gossip.

  Okay, this is embarrassing.

  “Do you have an appointment?” Wanda asked.

  She could have checked the schedule on her computer, since she had my name, but I guess she just wanted to humiliate me further.

  “No,” I said, and felt my cheeks heat up.

  “Have a seat,” she said, as if I were being relegated to stee
rage.

  I walked to the chairs in the reception area but didn’t sit down. I kept an eye on Kirk’s secretary, thinking I could just go over and speak with her, and saw her lift her phone. She made eye contact with Wanda. They were talking to each other. Beth froze for an instant, then sat up a little straighter in her chair, and her gaze swept to me. Wanda was looking at me now too. Both of them were staring. Then I heard the phone buzz on another secretary’s desk. She picked up, listened, then stared at me too.

  That awful Wanda was conferencing-in every secretary in the room. They were all staring, all talking about me and my irregularities-investigation-pending.

  I clutched my handbag. It was a Notorious—in red leather, for God’s sake. Only me and five of Drew Barrymore’s closest friends had one. It proved I belong here.

  Male voices came from the direction of Kirk’s office and I turned quickly, praying that he was coming out of his office so I could rush inside. My hopes plummeted. It wasn’t Kirk. It was another lawyer I didn’t recognize, shaking hands with a client who was leaving—

  Oh my God.

  Ty Cameron.

  I don’t believe this. Ty Cameron? Here? At Pike Warner?

  What if he sees me? What if he asks why I’m here? What if he learns about my irregularities-investigation-pending?

  He’ll fire me. I’ll never get another decent job as long as I live. I’ll have to spend the rest of my life saying, “You want fries with that?”

  I whipped around and headed for the elevator.

  “Haley?” Ty called.

  I kept walking.

  “Haley?”

  I frantically punched the call button. Footsteps approached; then Ty was in front of me, smiling, looking outstanding in Versace, and waiting for me to say something.

  “Oh, hi,” I said, forcing a smile and pretending I just noticed him.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, looking genuinely perplexed.

  Oh God. What was I going to tell him?

  I waved my fingers indicating, hopefully, that it was nothing big, that being at the largest, most powerful law firm in the history of the world was just part of my normal routine.