Swag Bags and Swindlers (13 page)

An icky, yucky feeling settled over me.

Was that little girl Ty's child?

C
HAPTER
17

“H
aley? Haley? Haley!”

I stopped, looked back, and saw Jeanette weaving toward me through a cluster of shoppers near the checkout lanes. For once, I really hadn't heard her call my name and deliberately ignored her. I'd been zoned out, my thoughts someplace else.

I'd been that way all day since driving back from Palmdale this morning, so out of it I'd actually waited on customers today—that's how upset I was about the whole Brianna King thing.

My shift was over—I'd never be too whacked out to inadvertently work overtime—but the store was still open, so I stepped out of the aisle and into the area near the front door and waited for Jeanette to catch up.

Today, she had on a circle-skirt dress that had, literally, every imaginable color in its swirl pattern.

She looked like a rainbow that had melted, then been hit by a tornado.

“Haley,” Jeanette said, as she stopped next to me, “I want to update you on what's going on—”

The protesters' “Paper-Palooza poisons the planet” chant drifted in when the doors opened, then cut off abruptly when they closed. Through the glass I saw them—still a dozen or more—waving their homemade signs and walking in a large circle.

Jeanette cringed. “I'm still waiting for corporate to decide how to handle the situation. This has never happened before.”

Protesters unhappy about a sale on paper products weren't even on my radar at the moment. Call me selfish, but there it was.

“We're the only store being targeted right now, but that could change at any moment,” Jeanette said. “It seems to be a local group of activists looking for publicity. If they get it and their cause gains momentum, this could be a huge, costly public relations nightmare.”

“I have to go, Jeanette,” I said, and gestured outside. “I'm meeting someone and I don't want to be late.”

That was a lie, which, I know, wasn't very nice of me, but I just didn't have the emotional capacity to take on someone else's trouble at the moment.

My excuse to leave could have been true, though. Marcie had texted me earlier and suggested we go shopping. She'd heard from someone who worked with her that the must-have Sassy satchel had been spotted at one of the high-end boutiques on Montana Avenue, a super cool shopping area in Santa Monica. I'd texted back that I wasn't up for it. I hadn't offered an explanation, but Marcie was cool with it, as a BFF would be.

“I received a memo from corporate today,” Jeanette said. “The acquisition of the Nuovo shops is still going forward, there's no question about it. But due to the delay and the inconvenience, it's been decided that the employee discount on merchandise will be increased. It will be twenty percent now, rather than the ten percent reported earlier.”

Yes, my thoughts had been in a fog most of the day, but this news definitely penetrated.

Oh my God. Corporate had done something nice for the employees? They'd actually upped our discount?

Jeanette seemed to be waiting for me to turn a cartwheel, or something, but I was too stunned to speak, let alone move.

“Well, have a nice evening,” Jeanette finally said, and headed toward the rear of the store.

Wow, could this day get any weirder?

I left the store, skirted around the protesters, and headed for my car. It was dark and the feeble we're-desperate-to-save-a-dime security lighting was barely bright enough to illuminate the parking lot. Just as I reached my Honda, a petite blonde jumped out of the car parked next to mine.

“Haley?” she called.

Oh my God. It was Marcie.

“Didn't you get my text?” I asked as she walked over.

“I got it, which is why I'm here,” she said. “If you're not up for shopping, something's definitely wrong. What is it?”

Is she the greatest bestie on the planet, or what?

“I don't know where to start,” I said.

“Get in the car,” Marcie said. “We're going to Starbucks.”

Luckily, the nearest one was only a few minutes away in one of the area's many upscale strip malls. We both got our favorite drinks and found a table outside on the patio. The area was lit with twinkle lights in the trees and shrubs, and the weather was Southern California perfect.

Marcie didn't say anything right away, which I appreciated. She knew I had to fortify myself with at least a third of my Frappuccino.

“Okay, what's going on?” she finally asked.

“I think Ty might have been involved with someone while we were dating,” I told her.

“Oh my God,” she said.

“I think maybe he has a child with her,” I said.

“You're kidding.”

I explained that I'd learned about Brianna King—I left out the part about Jack giving me her info—and that I'd talked to Ty's grandmother, then gone to her house in Palmdale and seen the little girl. Marcie listened, didn't interrupt or ask any questions until I'd spilled the whole story.

“Did you see the girl's mom? This Brianna King?” she asked.

“She came out of the house and watched the little girl,” I said. “She chatted with the neighbors, which made me think she actually lived in the house and wasn't just visiting.”

“What did she look like?”

“Tall, dark hair, pretty,” I said.

“Sounds like you,” Marcie said. “Ty's type.”

It was true, but it didn't make me feel any better.

“What was the house like?” Marcie asked.

“Very nice, and in a great neighborhood,” I said. “There was a BMW in the garage.”

“So you think Ty had a fling with her in Europe, brought her home to meet the family, then it all fell apart when she got pregnant?” Marcie asked.

“It makes sense,” I said.

“Not really,” Marcie pointed out.

Marcie is almost always right about things.

I hate it when other people are right about things.

“Why not tell his family?” Marcie asked. “Even if Ty and Brianna didn't want to get married, why keep it a secret? Ty has a great family. They would have understood. This would have been their first grandchild. They would have welcomed Brianna and the baby, wouldn't they?”

“Probably,” I said. “But maybe not. Who knows what really went on? Maybe it was Brianna's idea. Maybe she didn't want Ty's family to know.”

“So you're thinking that Ty stayed in touch with her all of these years, even while you two were dating?” Marcie asked. “He's been involved with the little girl's life? He's supported the two of them?”

“You think I'm crazy, don't you?” I said.

“I think you need more information,” Marcie replied. “Give me her address.”

I dug through my handbag for the slip of paper Jack had given me and held it up. Marcie typed the info into her cell phone.

“When I get to work in the morning I'll ask my friend in the mortgage department to do a property search,” she said.

Marcie worked at a huge bank downtown. She'd been there for years, had worked in several departments, and had friends throughout the building. She'd done this sort of thing for me before.

“I'll find out who the legal owner of the house is. If it's Ty, then you'll know for sure.” Marcie looked up at me. “If you really want to know, that is.”

My heart ached as I thought about it, but I knew I had to go through with it. I had to find out.

“I want to know,” I said.

What I didn't know was what any of this had to do with the murder of Kelvin Davis.

Maybe nothing.

Maybe everything.

Working at L.A. Affairs had suddenly become a lot like working at Holt's.

What had happened to my life?

I didn't know but it sure as heck wasn't what I wanted to face first thing on a Monday morning.

I stood in the supply room staring at the few remaining office and breakroom supplies on the shelves. Unlike the stockroom at Holt's, this one at L.A. Affairs was small—not any bigger than a walk-in closet—harshly lit and totally devoid of anything that might be remotely fun to try on or try out.

Stacked in the center of the room were the supplies I'd ordered last week, still in their brown shipping boxes. Someone had left them here for me to open and shelve—just like at Holt's except that Bella and Sandy weren't here for me to chat with and make the time go by quicker, and there was no chance that I might get to abandon the chore by hiding from a customer.

Since I'd worked at Holt's for such a long time I was a pro at opening boxes and shelving merchandise, but this morning I managed to stretch it out for an inordinate amount of time. I'd brought the official supply inventory folder with me and checked off each item as I pulled it from its shipping box.

Everything that I'd ordered had arrived, so in theory L.A. Affairs could continue to function now that the pumpkin-flavored coffee creamer was on hand and the paper plates had been replenished.

Maybe Mindy could ace her job as receptionist once she held one of the newly acquired fine-tip pens in her hand. Who knows? Maybe that was all it would take to turn her into an efficient, alert, crackerjack receptionist. And I'd be responsible for the stunning metamorphosis.

Maybe that would be noted in my job performance review.

The plant service had been in and done whatever it was a plant service did, and I'd received a confirmation e-mail from the building maintenance department that the fluorescent lightbulbs I'd requested for the ladies' restroom had been installed.

I finished shelving everything, delivered the supplies to the breakroom, took Mindy a pack of pens, and went to my office, glad that the unpleasantness was over and done with.

Then it hit me—my duties as facilities manager wouldn't end until Susie came back from maternity leave.

Then something else hit me—what if she didn't come back? What if she wanted to stay home with her baby?

I'd kick in for a nanny if I had to.

Just as I was settling in to catch up on everything I'd let slide this morning, my office phone rang. It was Mindy.

“Edie, you have a call—”

“It's Haley.”

“That's right,” Mindy said, and giggled. “Yes, Haley. That's who you are.”

“Is there a phone call for me?” I asked.

“What? Oh. Well, let me see. No, no, there's no phone call for you,” Mindy said. “You have a client. Yes, a client. A woman. Her name is . . . let me look. Oh, yes. Here it is. It's a Mrs. Potter. I wrote it down—”

I hung up.

Maybe I could get a refund on the fine-tipped pens.

I didn't have a client named Mrs. Potter, but I had a pretty good idea who had arrived sans appointment to speak with me. I grabbed the portfolio and searched the interview rooms until I spotted Laronda Bain.

Thanks to the Botox that gave her an I-just-came-to-life-in-a-wax-museum look, I didn't know if she was happy or sad, worried or completely relaxed over the prep for her son's Harry Potter-themed birthday party.

“You were on my schedule to call this afternoon,” I said as I sat down across the desk from her, which, oddly enough, was the truth. Like I said, I'm really pretty good at this job.

“Everything is being handled and will be ready in plenty of time for the party?” Laronda asked.

“Of course,” I said.

“Good, because I've thought of something additional,” she said.

Oh, crap.

“I'd like the entrance to the party to be unique and special,” Laronda said.

“That's one of the things I'd intended to speak with you about this afternoon,” I said.

Okay, that was a lie, but so what.

“I think entry to the party should be through a door marked ‘platform nine and three-fourths,' designed after the King's Cross railway station,” Laronda said.

Good grief. How much major construction did she want for a kid's eighth birthday party? And how did she think I was supposed to pull this off on such short notice?

I'd heard rumors of an event-planner relocation program. Maybe I should check into it.

“I'll get right on it,” I said.

“Thank you,” she told me, and I'm sure she was smiling on the inside even though her face couldn't show it.

Laronda left and I went back to my office. As I passed the window and glanced across the street at the Galleria, I was pretty sure I heard Starbucks call my name. I was plotting my escape when my cell phone rang. Marcie's name was on the ID screen.

I knew she was calling about the property search on Brianna King's house that we'd discussed last night.