Swag Bags and Swindlers (19 page)

Then something else hit me—were the love poems actually song lyrics?

Maybe I should have paid better attention when my high school English teachers had tried to make me learn about poetry.

I pulled out my cell phone, Googled song lyrics, and typed one of the phrases from the song the residents were singing into the site's search box. An entire song popped up. I read over the lyrics and realized that yes, it was a match. Then I saw the composer's name. It was Arthur Zamora, Ida's lost love.

Well, at least I'd stumbled across the owner of the journal. Wow, how cool was that?

Someone had mentioned that Arthur had suffered a mild stroke recently, so no wonder he hadn't noticed the journal was missing or been able to check out the notice I'd put on the bulletin board.

Just for gee-whiz, I Googled Arthur Zamora and got a long list of Web sites. I glanced over several of them and saw that he'd been a composer and lyricist to the stars back in the day. He'd written original production numbers for all kinds of television shows and movies—even for the Emmy and Oscar award ceremonies. He'd composed songs for, and had accompanied, some of the biggest names in Hollywood.

I read further and saw that Arthur had also become one of the most beloved entertainers of his era. There were glowing comments from everyone he'd worked with, marveling at the depth and beauty of his lyrics. Arthur Zamora had touched the hearts of millions with his songs.

Ida Verdell floated into my head. Surely, she knew Arthur had composed those songs. Did she hear them and think about their lost love? Did she wonder if he'd written some of those songs for her? Did her heart ache listening to them, wondering what her life would have been like if things had turned out differently between them?

I flashed on her daughter Sylvia. She was cranky and grumpy, a chronic complainer whose argument with Derrick Ellery had escalated into a heated exchange so intense I considered her a suspect in his murder. Surely, a daughter from Ida's union with Arthur would have turned out differently.

Sadness weighed me down. It was too late for Ida and Arthur now. Their moment had come and gone.

I was glad I could return the journal to him. Maybe looking it over, remembering happier times, would help his recovery. Maybe he'd be reminded of Ida. Maybe he would have a change of heart and want to talk to her—they both lived right here in the same care facility.

Maybe I was being overly optimistic, I thought.

Maybe I was just transferring my feelings for Ty onto them.

Maybe I should leave things as they were—for Ida and Arthur, and for Ty and me.

C
HAPTER
27

“H
ey, where are you going?” Bella asked as we left the breakroom and I headed toward my assigned will-this-horrible-day-ever-end department for my evening shift at Holt's.

I stopped and looked back at her. I recognized that pained look on her face and knew what Bella was about to say.

I was in no mood.

The Friday night crowd of shoppers shuffled past, their arms laden with truly hideous merchandise. Kids ran through the aisles. A baby was crying nearby. The store's music track blared an accordion solo—definitely not a soothing Arthur Zamora song. All of this after dealing with the Paper-Palooza protesters at the store's entrance.

“We've got a meeting,” Bella said.

No way could I deal with a meeting tonight. My afternoon at L.A. Affairs had gone from bad to worse, thanks to two new clients who wanted me to plan play dates for their dogs—I mean, really, I like animals too, but social functions for a couple of schnauzers? Then I found out that a bakery I'd ordered three cakes from had gone out of business, a wedding anniversary I'd been putting together for the last two months canceled, and the breakroom microwave had broken—which, for some reason, was my fault.

I was pretty well ticked off at Jack and Shuman. I'd called them trying to get more info on the Kelvin Davis and Derrick Ellery murders, but both of them, apparently, had lives of their own and hadn't called me back.

I hate it when that happens.

And, of course, this thing with Ty was making me crazy. He'd kissed me, then said he was sorry. About what? The kiss? Our breakup? For being a total jackass, at times, while we were dating? Or something else entirely?

“Come on,” Bella said, gently urging me toward the training room. “At least we'll be off the sales floor for a while.”

That was definitely a plus. Also, the Holt's meetings were no-brainers. I snoozed through most of them, periodically executing a well-timed nod so it appeared I was paying attention.

About two dozen employees were already seated in the training room when Bella and I walked in. I snagged seats for us on the last row, strategically placing myself behind that big guy from menswear. A woman in a no-nonsense Michael Kors business suit—obviously from the corporate office—stood at the front of the room alongside Jeanette, who was dressed in a where-the-heck-did-she-find-that-thing dress. Two bins filled with packets of papers were stacked nearby.

Oh, crap. Handouts.

I was ready to bolt for the door when Jeanette started speaking.

“We're very fortunate to have Constance Dodd from the corporate training department with us tonight,” Jeanette announced. “We've all been very concerned about the protesters outside our store and Ms. Dodd is here to address that issue.”

This was about the protesters? I was going to have to sit through a butt-numbing, mind-draining meeting because of them?

“Our corporate office training department has worked feverishly to put together this workshop,” Jeanette said.

A workshop? As in we'd have to work?

“Constance is going to take us through the company-approved procedures for dealing with the protesters,” Jeanette said.

Procedures?

“With the help of the entire corporate training team, she's put together workbooks and a PowerPoint presentation,” Jeanette went on.

Death by PowerPoint?

“Then she will lead us through some role-playing,” she said.

What? I was going to have to actually participate in this meeting?

“And afterward,” Jeanette said, “there will be a quiz.”

A—what? A quiz? I was going to have to actually sit here, stay awake during a presentation, get up in front of everyone, and act out what I'd supposedly learned, then take a quiz? All because of those protesters?

No way.

I heard grumbling and some groans—and they weren't coming from me.

Jeanette waved her hands for calm.

“I understand this isn't something any of us want to do,” she said. “But until those protesters are gone, we'll have to proceed with the training and learn how to properly deal with them.”

My day had been crappy—and now it was getting worse. I couldn't handle it. I couldn't.

I shot to my feet.

“You want those protesters out of here?” I demanded.

Everybody turned. Constance Dodd gasped. Jeanette definitely looked worried.

“Fine!” I said.

I stormed out of the training room, plowed through the crowded aisles, and burst out the front door. The protesters were walking in a circle, waving their signs and chanting. I yanked my cell phone out of my pocket, activated the video feature, and started recording.

For a few seconds I was afraid they would see what I was doing and hide behind their signs before I captured their faces—too bad I didn't have one of those tiny, inconspicuous life-logging devices Delores planned to use at the gala—but their chant got louder and they waved their signs higher as they paraded in front of me. I zoomed in on every face.

“Hey! Listen up!” I shouted.

I guess they never expected anyone to drown them out, because they all stopped chanting and walking, and stared at me.

“You think Holt's is poisoning the planet with the Paper-Palooza?” I screamed. “What do you think your signs are made of? Paper! And the sticks holding them are wood! From trees!”

They exchanged troubled looks. A few of them lowered their signs.

“If you don't want to end up on YouTube as the world's dumbest protesters, you'd better leave right now!” I told them, and held up my cell phone. “Otherwise, I'm posting this.”

They all dashed across the parking lot to their cars. I noticed then that most of the employees from the training room had followed me, along with Jeanette and Constance Dodd, who looked stunned.

Apparently the procedure I'd just executed was nowhere in her handouts or PowerPoint presentation.

Everybody stood frozen, staring at me—except for Jeanette.

She walked over. “I'd like to speak with you in my office, Haley. Now.”

 

“This arrived for you today,” Jeanette said, as I followed her into her office and sat down in the chair in front of her desk.

I expected to get fired—which, believe me, would have been okay with me—but instead she presented me with a large box. It was addressed to me here at the store and was marked “hand deliver.”

“What's this?” I asked.

Jeanette shrugged as I ripped open the box. Inside was yet another box, this one a gorgeous pale blue, tied with a huge silver bow. I unwrapped it, and inside were—oh my God—two Sassy satchels.

Where in the heck had these come from? Who'd sent them to me—here at Holt's?

Then it hit me. They must have been from Nuovo. I'd requested the bags and they must have come in early so they sent them to me. But how had they known I worked at this particular Holt's store? Was it in their computer?

“Beautiful,” Jeanette said, as I took the bags out of the box.

I hugged them, feeling the buttery softness, breathing in the scent of the leather, my mind racing with images of all the places I could take my Sassy and exactly which look would go best with it.

Wow, this was just the boost my day needed.

“Nuovo sent them,” Jeanette said, pointing to a label I hadn't noticed on the side of the box. “I didn't realize they delivered.”

I couldn't wait to tell Marcie.

“I received an e-mail from corporate about the Nuovo acquisition,” Jeanette said. “The employee discount has been increased.”

Increased? Oh my God. I didn't know if I could take any more good news right now.

“It's fifty percent,” Jeanette said.

“Fifty percent?” I might have said that kind of loud.

“Off everything in the store.”

“Everything?” Yeah, I definitely said that too loud.

“It's a fantastic benefit of working for Holt's,” Jeanette pointed out.

Wow, it sure as heck was. I could hardly take it in.

“Do you think you might want to stay?” she asked.

“I'm tempted. I mean, I'm really tempted,” I told her, as the idea raced around my brain. “But no, I'm still going to resign.”

Jeanette didn't look happy—which was kind of weird because, believe me, I'm nowhere near an ideal employee—but she didn't say anything.

I figured it was better if I got out of there before she turned her attention to my oh-so-clever method of dispatching the protesters. I put the Sassy satchels back into the box and left her office.

Bella was waiting in the hall. She gave me a big smile and said, “You rock, girlfriend.”

Nice to know somebody appreciated how I'd not only gotten all the employees out of a coma-inducing training session, but rid the store of the protesters as well.

I should take my show on the road.

“Somebody's looking for you,” Bella said.

Oh, crap. Was it Constance Dodd? If so, I'm sure she didn't intend to offer me a position at the corporate office in thanks for making her job easier, although after tonight, I was sure my name would make the rounds there.

Probably not in a good way.

“That detective,” Bella said. “The good-looking one. Shuman.”

Wow, could my evening get any better?

“Where is he?” I asked.

“Over by the jewelry counter,” Bella said.

“Great. Thanks,” I said as I walked away.

“Find out if he has a brother,” Bella called.

I dashed into the breakroom and got my car keys out of my handbag, then wound through the shoppers, my box of Sassy satchels tucked under my arm. I spotted Shuman checking out the jewelry. Something for Brittany, I figured, and my heart warmed a little knowing that he was happy enough to shop for her.

He seemed to sense my approach—I have that effect on people—and looked up. He smiled. Not that goofy grin I'd seen him favor Brittany with, but it made me smile in return.

“I have to take this to my car,” I said, and held up the box. “Walk out with me.”

Of course, I could have spoken with Shuman standing there at the jewelry counter. But Bella was right, he was good looking so why wouldn't I want to parade him through the store with me so everybody could see us and be jealous?

Yeah, I know, I'm kind of shallow sometimes, but that's the tool kit I'm working with.

There was no sign of the protesters when we left the store. The parking lot was nearly full, customers coming and going. The security lighting struggled against the darkness.

“So what's up?” I asked when we reached my car.

“I passed along your anonymous tip,” Shuman said.

I clicked the remote on my key chain and unlocked my car doors.

“Did the detectives believe you?” I asked.

Shuman opened the door, gave me a little grin—which looked totally hot in the parking lot's low light—and said, “I embellished a little about the source of the anonymous tip, made the story believable.”

“Are they going to run with it?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Yes, but I'm not sure how high on their priority list it is.”

I placed the box on the seat, squared it up, gave it one last loving look, then shut the door.

“Did you hear anything new about the Derrick Ellery investigation?” I asked. “Something about lawsuits he was involved with, maybe?”

Jack had told me Derrick and Hollywood Haven were being sued by some of the residents. Detectives Teague and Walker must have learned about them also.

“Lawsuits?” Shuman thought for a few seconds. “No, I haven't heard anything about lawsuits. What were they about?”

“I don't know,” I said. “But it seems weird, doesn't it? Derrick had over two hundred grand in the bank, plus all that property.”

I filled Shuman in on the info I'd gotten from Marcie—without mentioning her name, of course—about the millions of dollars' worth of real estate Derrick owned.

“Where would he get that kind of money?” Shuman mused.

“And why would the residents of Hollywood Haven sue him?” I said. “Nobody there liked the guy, but that's not grounds for a suit.”

Shuman shifted into serious cop mode. “Why didn't they like him?”

“I asked around. All anybody ever said was that he was too chummy with some of the residents,” I said. “ ‘Nosy' is what some of them called it.”

“You mean like asking personal questions?” he said. “Questions about their finances, maybe?”

“I guess, but—”

Hang on a second. Had Derrick's supposedly casual questioning actually been a cover for something else?

Shuman must have realized it at the same moment, because our gazes locked in an I-figured-this-out expression.

“Some of the residents don't have any family to watch out for them,” I said.

“Derrick was in a position to know who those people were,” Shuman added.

“A lot of them suffer from dementia and Alzheimer's,” I said. “They don't always know what's going on around them.”

“And he could have exploited that,” Shuman said. “He could have convinced some of the residents to sign over their money and property to him.”

“Since they didn't have any family,” I said, “nobody would know, nobody could have stopped him.”

“The worst kind of elder abuse,” Shuman said.

I thought about it for a few more seconds, then shook my head.